


Beat City

by ToulouseD



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Homicide, Ichigo's a detective, Ishida's the probie, M/M, Serial Murder, Yakuza, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 101,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToulouseD/pseuds/ToulouseD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder happens, Ichigo's on the case, and so's the rest of his squad. And the new probationary agent who, much to Ichigo's chagrin, is both mouthy and distracting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission back in 2015 for Isame Kuroda who requested murder with a little side of Ichigo/Ishida as well as the reintroduction of Shun as Inoue's boyfriend. Shun was first introduced in Under the Rubble and has carried over. First posted on FF.net

“Kurosaki Ichigo.”

“I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

“Indeed.”

“Can I have your name, sir?”

Beep

 

It’s raining. It’s been raining for the past three hours and it’s not the regular downpour of the early fall season. It’s cats and dogs, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if fish migrated into it. Or if he got a cold, seeing as he was currently standing in it. 

The city is almost steaming with rainclouds, like the heavens descended and shrouded every corner it could find. The harbor is alight with freight-ships and cranes blinking in the neigh-fog, the streetlamps turned on in the September night. The water’s a murky grey, black in places where it calms. 

He’s long since abandoned the notion of ever drying again, would even try to convince himself that the station-coffee was good if only because of the warmth and keeps thinking how shitty a gift this has turned out to be.

The CSU has erected a pavilion to shield the crime scene as much as possible, but it is a lost cause. Every drop of blood and most likely every piece of viable evidence has been washed away.

Ichigo sighs. This is shaping up to be a long haul. 

Nailed to one of the containers aboard a colossal cargo ship, is a man. He’s not been crucified, though at least that would have suggested some sort of religious fanatic or a sort of penance; he’s been run through with an iron rod which, as Chad pointed out, carries very little significance at all.

He’d been found at 3:30 am this morning, right before the rain started, by two dockworkers staying late. They’d seen nothing of importance, but one of them remembered seeing a motorbike in the area. Seeing as half the dockworkers drove one to or from work and you couldn’t transport a body on one such had them rule out the bike as a viable lead. 

Ichigo had been woken by a phone call from an unknown, but insistent number. At first he’d ignored it, hoping the caller would remember what time of day it was and leave him be. Then he remembered that he was a ranking homicide detective and picked up the phone like the damn professional he was.

The voice had been male, smooth, almost alluring to Ichigo’s ears. It had also sounded like a snake licking your ear.

Only a minute later had Mizuiro called him and told him to get out of bed. 

He’d picked him up and driven him to the crime scene, where he was now, trying to remember what warmth felt like at 4:15 in the morning.

“Do you want an umbrella?” Mizuiro asks him, holding one as he walks over with his eyes on his phone as opposed to Ichigo’s face. Ichigo doesn’t envy him. He’s going to have to fight tooth and nail to keep as many details about this out of the press as possible. But at least he gets to do it dryly.

“I’m already drenched,” Ichigo shrugs and turns up his collar. 

Mizuiro looks up and bats it down again, “Don’t do that, it looks stupid.”

“What do you want me to do then?”

“Use the scarf Keigo and I gave you,” he answers without sympathy or anything of the like. Mizuiro’s tough. He has to be.

He’d toiled away at university, constantly refining his oratory skills and honing his rhetoric. He’d been studying communication, had done so with fervor and had used every trick in the book to get the position of communications liaison for a huge tele-company. After a month, he’d quit. He never talked much about it, but Keigo always shook his head, eyes closed, when they brought it up. Mizuiro had then applied for the position at the NPA. It had been down to him and another woman, but in the end, Mizuiro’s calm demeanor and trustworthy charm had gotten him the job.

That and his ability to stare down a frothing mob of journalists without batting an eye.

“Chad’s got something for you. And I called in the probie. He’ll be waiting for you in my office.” Mizuiro’s eyes are back to his phone, frantically typing away. It could as easily be his shopping list as it could a heated discussion with an editor. Mizuiro’s a wildcard like that.

“Probie’s this month?”

“Next, but I figured we could use the manpower with this.” He waves his hand, encompassing the entire misery business elegantly.

Ichigo shoots the container a final look, the lights flooding the entire front of the ship, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“You sound surprised,” Mizurio rolls his eyes and walks away.

Chad greets him with a single nod and then leads him to a little patch of dry under a lean-to. He lights a smoke and offers Ichigo one, like he always does, and Ichigo declines politely, like he always does.

“The vics male, in his thirties, no ID, no prints, no teeth. Surveillance’s been sent to Keigo, body’s been sent to Inoue.”

He has a way of saying these things as if they’re footnotes in the paper, but Ichigo also sees the tension in his neck. Chad’s one of those people who can wrestle a deadbeat to the ground after he chewed up his wife and then feed ducks or make remixes in his free time. He has a tremendous way of always being surprising. He’d once made Ichigo a CD, made him sit in the car and listen to it and afterwards they went to Denny’s and got breakfast while they talked about MMA.

“Can’t be identified?”

“Most likely.”

“No evidence to speak of?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well, this is going to be fun,” Ichigo sighs. No ID usually means that somewhere out there is a group of people who’s missing a loved one and they have no way of knowing what even happened to him. Without an ID, he’ll be burned and stored, left to collect dust until he’s either buried or thrown out. 

Sometimes, his job sucks.

“You’ll figure it out,” Chad says, the same way he always says things. Definite.

Ichigo’s phone starts ringing again and he fishes it out of his pocket. It’s damp. They begin walking back out into the rain, heading towards Chad’s car.

“Thanks, man,” he tells Chad and flips open the phone. 

“You better appreciate my sacrifices. You know what time it is?”

Ichigo does, “What did you find on the surveillance?”

“Zilch.”

Ichigo sighs and opens the door on the passenger’s side. He doesn’t own a car himself, doesn’t even have a license. He skipped that in college in favor of travelling to Australia over the summer. He’d learned how to catch kangaroos, how to surf and how to handle himself in barfights – or at least how not to break them up.

“But I wouldn’t call you unless I had something,” Keigo says then as Ichigo closes the door. 

The car’s littered with old fast-food wrappers, the Times, soda- cans and heavy books on economics. It goes to show that Chad has multitudes.

“The tape’s been wiped, Ichigo. I’ve tried retrieving the data in the last hour but it’s too fragmented. I don’t have anything because there’s no savable files to watch.”

“This is good news how?”

“It takes skill to scramble eggs, my friend, it takes serious skill.”

Chad pulls out of the harbor and starts down the road. The streetlights are almost orange, the sky’s making no incentive to bleed color into the clouds anytime soon and all Ichigo wants is a lead and some coffee. 

“I know it’s not much, but it’s more than what you’ve got so far,” Keigo says and Ichigo has to agree with him on that. 

“We’ll be back soon.”

“Not with Chad’s driving,” Keigo says before he hangs up. 

The faded green wunderbaum is swinging idly as Chad pulls out into traffic. 

Keigo and Mizuiro had been his friends in university and Ichigo’d been surprised when he found that the computer science and poli. sci. major had, in protest of the current system, orchestrated one of the most elaborate shut downs of the police servers, allowing hundreds of criminals to walk. They were still cleaning up his mess, but Keigo’d been hired the minute they’d caught him. Which Ichigo thought was rather grand of them.

The neon advertisements are lighting up the buildings, toothpaste, movies, liquor, it’s all there. There’s an almost soothing feeling in watching the ads shift and the soft transition to another product. It gives the night an eerie and mystic glow, making it easy to believe only otherworldly creatures could inhabit it.

It takes them another twenty minutes to sift through the early morning traffic and even with Chad’s driving they reach the Keishicho sooner than expected. They drive into the parking cellar under the building, show their badges to the guard and parks the car.

 

Tatsuki’s sleeping on a couch. Ichigo envies her. 

He and Chad made it to the breakroom in one piece. Ichigo bumped into a suit looking somewhat lost, most likely a lawyer, and in that case, he doesn’t lose too much sleep over that.

Chad goes directly to the coffee-machine and starts brewing the vilest concoction known to man, which coincidentally is the only coffee Ichigo can drink now and enjoy. The coffee-machine, however, is a crime in itself. It requires a certain touch to make it work and Ichigo has never possessed this touch himself. Which is the way he met most of his friends. The machine almost coughs up its filters as Chad works his magic.

While Chad’s being his saintly self, Tatsuki stirs and wakes. She sits up, looking utterly wrecked.

“Rough night?” Ichigo asks.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Family,” she sighs and lies back down, “You look grey. New case?”

Ichigo nods and takes the coffee Chad offers him, “Man nailed to a container.”

“Why do you get all the exciting ones?”

“Because we work homicide,” Ichigo answers and takes a drink of his coffee, burning his tongue. 

Tatsuki clicks hers, “If only I’d known. I was so distracted by the big guns and badassery in my department that I didn’t notice all the awesome stuff behind the mountain of paperwork you have to do.”

“Yeah, well, more’s the pity.” Ichigo empties the cup and puts the mug in the sink. 

Tatsuki gives him a tired, but cheeky grin, “Let me know when you’re ready to take a beating again.”

Ichigo makes a face and nods to Chad, “Unlike some, we have actual work to do. Raincheck on the asskicking?”

“Can’t wait,” Tatsuki closes her eyes and buries her face in the pillows to drown out the light. 

Ichigo and Chad turns it off when they leave. 

Tatsuki is a member of the Riot Squad. They’re there whenever the shit’s about to hit the fan and usually make sure it doesn’t. Tatsuki had worked every thinkable job and had stories to tell from all of them. They’d met a few years ago when he’d ordered a breach and found Tatsuki doing the breaching. She’d then proceeded to almost singlehandedly taking down their suspect. That’s one thing that hadn’t changed since then – Tatsuki can still kick his ass.

They start heading towards the coroner’s office and subsequently Inoue.

 

The thing about Inoue is that she always manages to make the coroner’s office seem warm and welcome despite the smell of disinfection and spirits and the mutilated, lifeless bodies. She has a way with the next of kin when they come to identify their loved ones, makes them feel strong enough to face their worst nightmare. 

Ichigo opens the door for Chad and enters after him. Inoue looks up from the body in question and smiles at them. Then she turns back to the re-stitching of the torso and pulls the thread long. Her hair’s tied behind her head with what looks like her pen, two hairpins holding back her fringe.

They wait while she finishes. Ichigo looks around and sees what’s left of Tatsuki’s night. Three bodies, a woman, a man and a child is lying on separate tables and Ichigo doesn’t envy either Tatsuki or Inoue.

Inoue and Tatsuki had lived together while Inoue had first taken her medical degree, trying to become a surgeon, no less, but had found out she’d rather wanted to help those who didn’t have a voice. So she became a coroner. And if anybody gave them a voice, it was Inoue. Ichigo had seen her stay at the precinct for 73 consecutive hours trying to get IDs on the 32 victims that had burned to death in a hotel fire. She’d listened to The Lark Ascending and continued to sample skin, try dental records, going through almost every sinew they had to find an identifying surgery or injury.

They’d split up when they’d both begun working at the precinct. Inoue has a boyfriend. A sweet guy named Shun. Inoue’s rather secretive about how they’d met, but Ichigo suspects it was work-related seeing as Inoue rarely goes anywhere between the precinct and her apartment.

“Just a minute,” she says and picks up her clipboard. She looks around, looking somewhat puzzled to the fact that she can’t seem to locate her pen. Ichigo fishes one out of his pocket, clicks it and hands it to her.

“Thank you.”

She writes down a few notes, fills out what boxes needs filling.

“So,” she starts and dots her last sentence, “he was impaled post-mortem. But the hole in his chest was made when he was alive.”

Inoue brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes and gently touches the hole in question. It’s in the very center of his chest, going all the way through him. The ironpipe had been lodged in his solar plexus, little tangs of rust discoloring the white, waxy skin.

“Anti-mortem?” Ichigo asks and bends down to get a closer look.

“I found ligature marks on his ankles and wrists, so he was restrained while they drilled the hole, the edges are uneven like he moved around a lot. They went through the sternum, through his heart and lungs which then killed him.”

“Cheery,” Ichigo comments and looks the poor guy over, “Where was he killed?”

“Not at the crime scene, I can tell you that much.”

Ichigo nods and runs a hand through his hair, “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“He probably passed out before he died,” she says softly.

“Anything to help an ID?” Chad asks, ever the pragmatic.

“His bloodwork will be in soon, but all the normal markers are completely destroyed. I might be able to pull a print from one of his less injured fingers, but I can’t make any promises.”

His fingers are burnt to a crisp, black and flaky. He looks miserable as he’s lying there on the table, and something about the lines around his mouth tells Ichigo he probably was when he was alive as well. The way his eyes aren’t fully closed has Ichigo hoping he passed out the minute the drill was put to his chest.

“I’ve sent his stomach contents to the lab and I’m going to be doing a toxicology report as well. He might have trace amounts of some anesthetic or something like that, something that would explain how he got tied up in the first place.”

“You make it sound like he did it voluntarily,” Chas remarks and Inoue licks her lips.

“So far it looks like there was only one assailant.”

Ichigo frowns, “Only one?”

Inoue nods, “Which is why I’ve ordered a toxicology. You can’t tie someone down and simultaneously hold a gun to their head.”

Ichigo sighs. This is, without any doubt, the shittiest present he’d ever received.

“Do what you do, then.” 

“You too,” she says and gives him a quiet smile. 

Even here in the most desolate area of existence, does Inoue Orihime have the ability to make the clouds shine with a silver lining.

 

On their way back to the bullpens, Chad breaks off. He wants to check up on Keigo and find out how far along the lab is. Ichigo nods him off and then proceeds to his desk unaccompanied. 

The halls are all the same kind of boring white, getting lost is easy since everything looks the same. Apart from a few black and white photographs of mayors, the city once upon a time and other strange almost comically staged pictures of handshakes to underline how naked the walls are. The light’s stark and harsh in the early morning and late at night. They have a magical ability to show all the world-weariness of whoever it touches. Ichigo has yet to meet anyone who looks decent in the bold light, like they don’t have anything to hide from the rest of the world.

The bullpen’s lazily waking up or going to bed, depending on where you look. Tuesdays are rarely a busy day for crime, it’s more of a weekend thing. Which they don’t tell you at the academy. 

Rukia’s waiting by the door, falling into step with him as they head through the labyrinth of desks and whiteboards, office-chairs and mountains upon mountains of paperwork. They were never told about that either. 

“Enjoying your present?”

Ichigo shrugs off his jacket and slings it over his arm, “Not really.” 

The thunder humming in the air outside, the drenching autumn rain, have the station hot and humid. There’s a drop travelling down his back already. Fans are working hard to cool down the poor bastards stuck inside writing reports. It’s a testament to how poor the air-condition has become, when one can go from freezing to sweating in 20 minutes.

“On the bright side, we’ll be running co-op on this one,” Rukia says and sends him a little smile, “Captain Ukitake thinks you could use our help. My help. Off the record, of course.”

Which, fair, he’s mostly likely right about. Organized Crime has better resources than Homicide and easily counts at least twice the manpower. Besides, it’s nice to be working with Rukia again, even if it’s off the books and she can be pulled anytime her Captain should so wish. Luckily, Ukitake is one of the Captains who doesn’t do that sort of thing. He’s not Zaraki or Soi Fong. He’s not unreasonable.

The first investigation Ichigo had landed himself in had been Rukia’s. She’d been on to a shipment of easy drugs and Ichigo had been on the way home from college, his first year of med school. He’d happened upon a car theft, which also happened to be Rukia’s drug-traffickers, and had acted accordingly. Rukia had tasered him. When he’d come to, Rukia had been standing over him, looking thoughtfully at him. She’d given him her card. He’d quit med school and when the time had come, he’d interned with her, before he’d been transferred to Homicide. 

“I’m inclined to agree,” Ichigo sighs and throws his jacket over the half-wall of his cubicle. It’s this faded, dusty green and could easily do with facelift, most of the interior seems to hate life and death equally.

“I read Inoue’s preliminary,” she says and sits down in Chad’s chair. 

Ichigo mirrors her but takes his own chair, “What do you think?”

Rukia frowns bites her lips. Though she doesn’t look it, she’s five years older than him.

“From what I can see, meticulous, highly intelligent, wouldn’t surprise me if he was a full-blown psychopath. He literally nailed his victim to the container as if he was a piece of art and he’s bold enough to call you on your private cellphone. He’s gutsy and he won’t stop until we catch him.”

Besides being a rather fierce shot, Rukia also took a bachelor in behavioral science. The Homicide investigations tend to get caught up in evidence and technicalities when they get stuck. He’s called Rukia for a second opinion more times than he can remember.

“When are the photos coming in?” she asks and leans back.

“It’s still 5 in the morning, at least another three hours.”

“Can’t we pull them ourselves?”

Ichigo shakes his head. Rukia’s used to having the needed material in her hand within the hour of the crime happening. Organized Crime has priority. She seems annoyed, but resign herself with the reality of the situation. 

Instead, she pierces him with a direct stare. “So what’s new in your life?” she inquires and smiles a wolfish smile.

Ichigo’s immediately on edge, “What do you mean?”

“I was just wondering if you’d gone on any exciting dates or met some mouthwatering people, all single and ready to mingle?”

“What did you do?” 

She looks at her nails, “What do you mean, what did I do?”

“You pick your nails when you’re lying, give it.” Her large blue eyes and petite frame will not fool Ichigo.

“I was just asking,” she shrugs, removing her fingers from her nails. 

“You signed me up for a dating-site, didn’t you?”

She stops her fidgeting and grins impishly. Ichigo’s shoulders slump and he runs his hands over his face, trying to rub off the reality of being sold out like this.

“I do it because I worry, Ichigo. You’re turning into a crazy cat-man.” Which is unfair, he doesn’t even have a cat fulltime. 

Before he can ask her to delete the profile and everything else she might’ve signed him up for, Mizuiro appears.

“Ichigo?” he questions, looking down into his phone. One might be tempted to call him aloof, but then he lifts his eyes and they’re warm and present and you can’t help but eat the words again.

“Isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?” Mizuiro taps away on his phone. Ichigo knows that Mizuiro knows, he has, so there’s no point in protesting. The other gives him a look and sighs, “The probie’s waiting for you.”

And Ichigo will have to admit that yes, he’d forgotten all about this. In fairness, he has been occupied with a murder.

“Where is he now?”

“Where he’s been the last hour,” Mizuiro answers. That means his office. Mizuiro actually has one, because he’s important like that. It’s a quaint, little thing a floor up from Homicide. It’s connected directly by a flight of stairs and if you’re bored and need something – anything – to do, you visit Mizuiro. What he gives you then depends on how much he likes you. Some get tea and biscuits, some gossip and some again, a glare that could make grown men cry and a case that’ll bore you to tears. The last is mostly reserved for those who bait or tip off the press.

Ichigo straightens and closes his eyes, if only for a second. He has to get some semblance of a decorated Lieutenant, be a Goddamn professional as Rukia says. He thinks about the victim, who was once a person, a living someone, with people who loved and cared for him. He cracks his neck and meets Rukia’s eyes. They’re ready.

“We’ll pick him up and then do a team brief. Can you get a hold of the others?” Ichigo decides then and stands. Mizuiro nods and immediately puts the phone to his ear.

“Shall we?” he asks and Rukia nods. They head towards Mizuiro’s office.

 

The new guy is reading. 

He’s overdressed in an expensive suit, grey like the clouds outside, heavy with rain and wearing a white shirt and a black tie. He even has a waistcoat on. He looks more like a lawyer or an intern than Ichigo would like. 

He’s sharp-featured. His eyes are keen and zipping across the pages. And they’re blue.

Rukia elbows him in the side as Ichigo notices the probie has stopped reading.

Ichigo puts on a pleasant, yet professional smile and holds out his hand, saying, “Well, I’m –“

“I know who you are.” 

He promptly ignores the hand and instead nods at Rukia and closes the book. Ichigo looks to her, trying to figure out if this is a joke. The man stands and swings a messenger bag over his shoulder. 

Standing, he’s looks slender, easy to get the drop on. His hair falls into his eyes and he tosses it out of the way with almost imperceptibly. It’s a poignant contrast between the black hair and pale skin, it has Ichigo wondering if people like this exist and whether or not the man in front of him can walk under the hallway lights unscathed. Something about him has Ichigo believing he carries secrets in every nook and pocket he has. He feels different, so very different, from the blunt force that usually hangs about the place – like rain.

“Ishida Uryuu,” he says, strangely soft. He’s waiting for Ichigo to do something, he assumes. Rukia nods back to him and gives him her name. 

“Come on,” Ichigo has himself saying, hoping it’s the right thing to say in the first place. Ishida follows them down, eyes on the photographs. Rukia steps back into Ichigo’s side and they both pretend not to want to talk about the man behind them, so they exchange a sort glance, Rukia pulling a face.

When they reach the bullpen, Mizuiro has managed to gather everyone there. Keigo’s spinning around in Ichigo’s chair while talking to Chad, Inoue’s rifling through her clipboard and Mizuiro’s fingers are flying over the keys to his phone. He’s dressed their cubicle with a whiteboard, a preliminary report and somehow, like only Mizuiro can, got pictures of both the victim and the crime scene up. 

They quiet when the three of them approach.

“You can take the desk next to Inoue,” he says to Ishida who duly walks to it and places his messenger bag delicately. While he takes off his suit-jacket and rolls up his Hugo Boss shirt to his elbows, Ichigo introduces him, “Everyone, this is Ishida Uryuu. Latest probationary agent and now our responsibility. Answer his questions and all that, you know the drill and make sure he doesn’t get killed by accident.”

“Do you carry a gun?” Chad asks and Ishida looks up from his sleeve-rolling.

“No.”

Chad nods. It’s good to know they got the probationary agent without any obvious methods of self-defense on a case where psychopathy looks to be the driving force. Ichigo takes a deep breath, he’ll just have to keep Ishida in the car or under someone’s supervision. And then get him his weapons qualifications. 

He steps over to the board and puts his hands on his hips. His own shirt is pushed up over the elbows and it’s still frothing hot. He wonders how Ishida can stand wearing a waistcoat as well.

“This morning at 3:30, I got a call from our killer. At approximately the same time, a body is found at the Qinghai Container Terminal by two dock workers. CSU arrive there 10 minutes later and almost every single piece of evidence has been washed away by the rain,” Ichigo has turned and is addressing them directly.

“The victim’s male, in his 30’s. We have no prints, no ID and no surveillance footage. Keigo’s looked through the different files and none of them was playable. We’re trying to find out who manages the terminal’s security, where the container’s from, but seeing as it’s still 5.30 am in the morning, we can’t do much with this at the moment.”

“It’s all digitized now so I need to access the terminal’s loading logs to find out where it’s from. And since they’re currently stonewalling me, I doubt it’ll happen before the court-order drops in,” Keigo adds, still turning. Ichigo notes that on the board. 

Rukia gets up as well, “From what we’ve seen so far, he’s highly intelligent. He doesn’t do anything by halves and he has little to no respect for people he perceives as inferior. He’s meticulous, which suggests either age or infinite patience, but without more data we can’t work out a thorough profile.”

Inoue twists Ichigo’s pen into her hair, together with her own, “I don’t think I’ll be able to pull any prints from our victim. He’s missing a piece of his little finger, but with all the damage to his fingers I can’t tell how old the injury is.”

“I’ll try calling the Isewan’s HQ, threaten them with warrants and other scary police things, see if they’ll surrender their mainframe,” Keigo says and stretches.

“I’ll have to deal with the press,” Mizuiro joins in, though he could’ve left them and they would all know why. He hasn’t lifted his eyes from the screen even once and doesn’t seem inclined to do so anytime soon. “Someone posted a photo of our crime scene around the time of discovery and it’s trending on twitter.”

“That’s macabre,” Chad deadpans.

Mizuiro sighs, “Yes, it is.”

“We’ll go back to the crime scene, Chad, Rukia, Ishida.” Ichigo folds his arms and turns to watch the picture of their victim. Without an identity, they can’t even pull the photo from his driver’s license. His eyes are closed and just as well, he doesn’t need a pair of dead eyes following him around.

“Alright, break!” Keigo says and bounces up from the chair, heading for the breakroom to fill up his mug and thermos. Mizuiro rolls his eyes, smiling a little, but heads back to his office to stave the wolves away. 

Inoue introduces herself to Ishida and makes the remaining introductions as well on their behalf. Ishida answers like he’d like nothing more than to know the names of everyone on the team, maybe he does and he just really hates Ichigo. 

“Come on,” Ichigo says and grabs his jacket. Chad’s immediately on his heels and Rukia follows. Ishida says goodbye to Inoue and practically saunters after them. He doesn’t bother with rolling down his sleeves again, which has Ichigo looking at his wrists the entire way down the elevator.

They all cram into Chad’s car, after they spend five minutes clearing the backseat for Rukia and Ishida. While Rukia has a license, she drives the smallest vehicle known to man. They once tried cramming Ichigo into the passenger’s seat in her little, violet smart car. They ended up taking the train instead. She’s had the seat fixed since then and now they can even fit a person into the back, but there has to be goodwill and miracles working then.

Ichigo all but throws himself into the car and rubs his hands against each other. The car is cold and the warmth that the coffee had driven into his hands has evaporated.

Rukia sits back and pulls out her phone, probably to play Candy Crush or something. She has a new game on her phone every week and when that week ends, she’s bored with it and deletes it. Ishida just gets in. He looks out the window, almost like he’s bored with it already. He isn’t pressing his nose to the window like any of the other probies they’ve had coming in from the suburbs or the countryside. He watches like he’s seen it all before.

“So Ishida, you fresh out of the academy?” Rukia asks, trying to establish a rapport. 

“It’s all in my file,” he says, a half-answer at best.

Rukia’s still solving sugarplum puzzles. “I know, but you tell me.”

“Yes,” he replies then.

“Why do you want to become a police officer?”

“Are you asking for my tragic backstory?” he questions and Ichigo quirks the corners of his mouth.

Rukia closes her phone, “I suppose I am.”

“I don’t have any,” Ishida’s back to looking out the window, blissfully unaware that the conversation hasn’t finished yet.

“That’s what they all say until one day we find them riffling through old unsolved, hoping they might be able to find the one piece of the puzzle that everybody else missed.”

Ishida doesn’t respond, simply keeps his eyes pointed out the window. Ichigo catches them in the side view mirror. They’re almost eerily blue in the pastel morning light.

The residue of the night is still to be found in the cracks of the pavement and dozing off with the cats. The billboards are dimming their displays, the neon still streaming through their logos and ads. The only thing left from the passing nine hours, is the rain.

 

In the daylight the mountain of containers seems smaller and less imposing than it had in the cover of darkness. The police tape’s cordoning off the area, but a group of dockworkers is loitering about, one of them daringly lifting the tape to go under it.

Rukia rolls her eyes and Chad eyes Ichigo for a reaction.

Ichigo’s reaction is to pull out his badge and hold it out, like a mosquito-repellent, “Don’t even think about it!”

The dockworker removes his hands from the tape as if an electric current ran through the makeshift fence. They hurriedly move away from them, muttering between themselves.

“Maybe they’ve seen something,” Chad suggests and Ichigo sighs, knowing he’s probably right.

“This type of offender might want to revisit his crime scene, so it’s entirely possible. He’s also likely to inject himself into investigation – contact the press or come forward like a witness, something like that,” Rukia chips in and shields her eyes against the blank, white sky. 

Ishida’s just looking around, apparently content with not contributing. 

Ichigo nods once, “Chad?”

Chad grunts in affirmative and stalks away towards the still whispering group of potential witnesses. 

Rukia squints and points to the container, “He was found there?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo confirms.

“Some present.”

“Tell me about it,” he cracks his shoulders.

Seagulls are gossiping with each other, sitting on every available surface. A group of them is lounging on the cold, wet asphalt. The rain stopped falling halfway to the harbor and now there’s only puddles and a cold shine to every surface it touched. 

“What’s inside the container?” Ishida asks then and pushes his fringe behind his ear. His glasses catch the soft blue and pink light in a sharp flash.

“Sorry?” 

“You said you got a present, yes? Wouldn’t the victim be more of a card than an actual gift if he was nailed to an enormous steel box?”

There’s something in his tone of voice, like he’s surprised Ichigo hadn’t thought about this sooner, like he’s better than him. Ichigo clenches his jaw and hopes a seagull shits on his head.

“It’s worth looking into,” Rukia says and hails Chad back.

“What’s up?” he asks when he returns. 

Ichigo answers, “Probie thinks there might be something inside the container.”

In return, Ishida rolls his eyes. 

Rukia elbows Ichigo in the ribs and he knows he’s supposed to be the professional, the supervisor. 

“CSU left the ladders and all that, yeah?” he offers and starts towards the ship on which they’re stored. Since he gets no affirmative, he assumes that nobody knows. 

He lets Rukia and Ishida go first, then himself and then Chad lastly. Which is a rookie mistake, because it turns out that Ishida’s backside is a lot more appealing than what’s fair. So Ichigo spends the entire climb forcing himself to look elsewhere, trying to remember he’s a decorated lieutenant and that Ishida’s a pain in the ass and suddenly he’s back to looking at the rusty ladder and chipping paint.

The wind is greasy and tugs at his hair. It’s refreshing but filthy. Five seagulls fly off when Rukia steps up on the container, screeching at them. The view’s gorgeous this high up. They can see Tokyo’s skyline slowly appearing from the morning fog, like an army come to reclaim their lands.

The containers are stacked precariously; it seems, like a game of Jenga that’s gone out of hand. They’re standing on a strange sort of pyramid 50 meters up in the air, the container in question standing proudly on top as if nothing’s wrong. 

Ichigo goes to it, finds the door to be right in front of them. Chad comes over, without a word, and then they force open the doors. It’s heavy and loud, scraping across the metal of the container below it. Rukia winces at the whine.

“You stay here,” he points to Ishida who looks like he’s about to protest, but clamps his opinion down and turns towards the ocean instead. His entire stance scream insubordination and disrespect. Ichigo hasn’t even had the chance to earn it yet and the asshole’s already written him off.

Why did the most attractive person to come along in a long time also have be an unmitigated asshole?

The smell is what hits them first. Once you’ve smelled death and the tangy smell of blood and violence, you always know what it is. It’s something they don’t tell you, but you become so fluent in the tongue of misery that you sometimes know without ever having to think about it. So when all three of them recoil and look to one another, it’s a matter of seconds before Rukia hurries to call the precinct and get CSU to come down here again. 

So far, it looks like the gaping maw of a rusting, pale yellow dragon. Ichigo finds his flashlight and turns it on. 

The cone lands on a chair. It’s been fitted with restraints and most of it looks medical grade, completely lathered in blood. The floor shines in an almost ominous way, dark red and contrasting the peeling, off-white interior.

“ETA?” Ichigo calls out to Rukia who holds up two fingers, then changes it to five. Ten minutes out then. 

He slips on his blue latex gloves, always present in his pocket. 

“You can’t go in there yet,” Chad says, knowing it’s a lost cause. Ichigo’s already taken the first step inside. He steps around the blood-red lacquer, presses himself to the wall and tip toes on the white, dry patches. There’s footsteps imprinted in it. 

He shines the light in every corner and every crevice, looking for any kind of the victim’s possessions, teeth or wallet. There’s neither. 

“You find anything while contaminating our crime scene?” Rukia shouts in after him.

“Not so far,” he answers and can physically feel her exasperation. “And yet.”

He spots the tape on the chair. It’s an old cassette tape. He picks it up carefully, it sticks to the chair but otherwise spitting clean. 

“Anybody have a cassette player?” Ichigo asks as he walks out of the container.

“Back home,” Chad answers and of course he does. Ichigo hands him the tape and Chad studies it, turning it over and almost even smelling it. Ichigo wouldn’t be surprised if he licked it and told them when it was made, but he doesn’t, because Chad has dignity.

“It’s a regular Sony. I have a bunch of these back home, they’re relatively cheap.”

“Brilliant,” Rukia sighs and scrubs her face. “I hope your secret admirer put something good on it.”

Chad bags it but hangs on to it for now. Ishida hasn’t said anything since Ichigo had him stay put. He’s still watching the ocean, sometimes turning towards the harbor if there’s a loud noise.

“Probie?” Ichigo calls. 

Ishida’s shoulders visibly sacks. “I have a name,” he argues.

“What do you make of this tape?”

Ishida comes over and picks the bag out of Chad’s hand. He gives it a quick onceover, turns it and repeats.

“It’s addressed to you,” Ishida says and hands it back to Chad.

“Keen observation,” Ichigo can’t help but noting. 

“Besides that, it’s a type II cassette and if whatever’s on here was recorded onto it without using a hi-fi separate, it’s going to be distorted.”

Ichigo automatically looks to Chad who nods a little belatedly after checking the top of the tape.

Under them, vans and police-cars begin to trickle out. The CSU files out, quickly gathers their equipment and begin hoisting it all up onto the ship and the containers. They almost scowl at them as they pass them. When they see the tape in Ichigo’s hand, they practically glower.

“What have we told you about not wading into our crime scene,” one of them growls, “Kurotsuchi fucking hates it. We fucking hate it. You should stop fucking doing it!”

Ichigo’s used to that tone. He sees Ishida lift an eyebrow and then simply watching them as they set up their gear and begin suiting up.

“We should stop by your place and get that player,” Ichigo says and turns around. Rukia and Chad follow him, Ishida keeps looking at the CSU another second before he turns and heads towards them.

Ichigo takes a deep breath of smog-induced and greasy air and starts down the ladder.

“Kurosaki,” Ishida says and Ichigo looks up like he was Pavlov’s dogs, because he’s never heard his name said like that before. It’s oddly temperate and yet soothing. Then he sees Ishida’s eyes on him, intense and so fucking blue, but he drops them to the ground, where someone has dropped a pen.

It rolls towards him, Ishida steps out of it’s way and then looks back to him. Ichigo swallows, but hurries to step off the ladder in favor of picking up the pen.

“Are you done with that?” one of the techs asks.

“No,” Ichigo brushes him off and finds his phone.

He flips it open and speed-dials Keigo. “The office of awesome, what’s eating at you?”

“You said the loading was digitized, yeah?”

“Would I lie to you, Ichigo?”

Rukia pokes her head up, about to ask what’s going on, but Ichigo quiets her with a single finger, because he needs to hear what Keigo says now.

“Keigo, is there any way to check if our container’s not supposed to be on this ship?”

There’s a storm of keys being pushed and clicked, “Hold please.”

And Ichigo does. 

“What’s the container’s tracking number? It’s on the right door, top right corner.”

Ichigo pushes through the crime scene unit and closes the right door enough to see the number.

“MSKU 070 268 2,” Ichigo answers.

Ishida frowns, “That’s not an Isewan container.”

“It’s registered to Maersk and it was reported stolen from Shizuoka a month ago. I’ll try digging up the report on this and see if there’s anything in it that might help,” Keigo says. 

He waits a second before he adds, “He might’ve planned this for a very long time, Ichigo.”

“I know,” he answers, “We’ll see you back at the precinct.”

He shuts his phone and puts it in his pocket. He looks up and meets Ishida’s eyes. He gives him a simple nod and then turns to the ladder again.

“What was it?” Rukia tries and when they’ve climbed down, once again, Ichigo’s in the choice position of having a plain view of Ishida’s legs and lower back again. It’s sad that it’s the highlight of his day, really. 

“The container is stolen,” he tells her as they head back to Chad’s car, which have been blocked completely by the CSU. Their revenge is a petty one, because Chad might be a delicate driver, but he maneuvers like no other, so the joke’s on them.

“When?” Chad pursues and starts the car, twisting in his seat to get the best vantage point.

“A month ago in Shizuoka.”

Nobody responds to that. Ichigo knows what they’re thinking anyways. 

 

“Your container was stolen from Shizuoka?” Mizuiro pushes him the minute they’re through the door. 

Chad puts the tape recorder on his desk and start hooking it up. The tape’s with the lab, quickly swapping for DNA or fingerprints, but looking through the lenses of realism, there’s probably nothing there. 

Ichigo nods, “Yeah.”

“I got a hold of the lead-investigator and he told me that it’s not missing. They found it a week later, but never cleared up the report.”

Ichigo stops in his tracks and looks at him, frowning, because he doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

“I read about that,” Ishida pipes up then, leaning back in his newly appointed chair. “The container’s aren’t stolen, but their tracking numbers are.” 

“They’re used to smuggle drugs in a legal fashion,” Mizuiro continues, “The container’s logged to carry cars or furniture or whatever and then it’s not checked. They’re called Ghost Containers.”

“Oh, God,” Ichigo sighs, because there’s only one way this is going. “Yakuza?”

“Yakuza,” confirms Mizuiro.

Ichigo dumps into the chair and swirls it once, “The good news?”

Mizuiro lifts a pile of manila-folders, “Suspect pool. I also compiled a list of missing persons reports. Might get a hit there.”

“Probie?” Ichigo takes the folders and opens one of them.

Ishida looks up like he’d rather take a knife to the gut, “What?”

Ichigo’s starting to wonder if they’re going to have an attitude problem on their hands real soon.

“You’re familiar with facial recognition software, yeah?”

“Yes,” he answers and looks rightfully suspicious.

“Load of shite, doesn’t exist.” Ichigo watches his face remain stoic. Most probies crumble when they realize they have to manually look through every file in order to get a possible ID of their victim.

“I figured.”

“Good, you start with the ones Mizuiro’s found for you. If that doesn’t work, go further back, widen the perimeter.” Ichigo opens the first of his own pile. 

It’s a mean bunch Mizuiro’s dug up. They’re all previously convicted of violent crimes, some having butchered entire families, some torn their girlfriend to shreds. Quite a few of them are excluded out of pure stupidity. Inoue’s missing fingertip suddenly makes sense in this company.

Chad takes one half of the files and Ichigo smiles at him. 

It’s hard sitting and reading about all the terrible things humans do to each other, doing it in a stuffy precinct without any air conditioning is not adding to the experience. Chad has taken off his shirt and is now reading the files in his undershirt. He had an arm-piece done four years ago. He was almost kicked out of the force because the superintendent worried that he might have yakuza ties. It’s a fucking heart with wings and a snake, reading Amore e Morte. Ichigo had vouched for him, had known Chad would never support those fuckheads. If Inoue, Rukia, Mizuiro and Keigo hadn’t joined ranks though, Chad might have been fired. 

Truth is, you rarely got a tattoo unless you were yakuza and that stigma still hangs around it like a poisonous fog.

Ichigo wipes his forehead and rolls his shoulders. He feels the fabric stick to his back and he breathes out, runs a hand through his hair. Rukia’s off pushing the yakuza angle with her own people. Probably bringing in Renji as well. 

Ichigo looks over to see Ishida completely emerged in the different casefiles. Ichigo wonders if he’s even reading them, because he doesn’t have the same folder in his hands for more than five minutes. He’s loosened his tie and crossed his legs, sitting more like a captain than a lowly probationary agent. 

He realizes he finds that incredibly attractive and immediately shoots his eyes back to his own file. The face of one lanky, thin man stares back up at him. He resembles a snake, looks slimy with his long, black hair. And he keeps his collar up, which has Ichigo label him as an idiot right then and there. 

“Look at this asshole,” Ichigo leans back and shows Chad, who lifts his eyebrows and hums. 

Ishida looks up, but doesn’t ask to be shown, and so, Ichigo doesn’t. 

“Ichigo, can I speak with you?” Rukia interrupts their juvenile fun and Ichigo closes the file with the rather unattractive male who has a definite overbite and stands. He follows her into the breakroom.

“What’s up?”

“I spoke with Renji and he’ll look into the yakuza angle as much his clearance allows.”

Ichigo frowns, “Why only as much as his clearance allows?”

“Some of the captains doesn’t think the yakuza’s involved and that we’d be wasting precious resources looking into it and locking ourselves this early,” she shakes her head.

Ichigo scoffs. It’s the same old story, really.

“Our evidence isn’t conclusive. When it is, they’ll help.”

“When it is, there’ll be more victims.”

“You know how they are,” she tries, but Ichigo shakes his head.

“Yeah, doesn’t make it easier to chew though.”

Rukia raises her eyebrows quickly, as if saying, tell me about it. She turns to the coffee maker and presses for two cups of joe. While she looks for two cleans cups she tells him, “I read his file.”

“Ishida’s?” Ichigo questions and opens the third cabinet and reaches in to find two cups there. It’s easy to see Rukia doesn’t belong in this department. Any cop worth their salt knows where the good china is.

She hums, “He graduated top of his class,” she says and lets Ichigo take over, which is a rookie mistake. He hands her the cups, because he knows that if they’re going to want coffee, she’ll be the one to make it. She rolls her eyes but accepts the responsibility.

“So top of his class? Only makes him a smartass,” Ichigo finds the milk and sugar, knowing she takes her coffee contaminated.

“It makes him an asset,” she corrects him and takes the additives. “He also broke the track record.”

“Good. He can outrun the psychos until he gets his weapons qualifications.”

“All I’m saying is you should read it. He’s a resource, Ichigo.”

Ichigo pours the coffee and smirks at her, “What does that make you?”

“Your God-given solace.”

She turns on her heel and heads for the bullpen. Ichigo follows dutifully and sits back down at his desk. Rukia sits down on top of it and sips her coffee. Ishida eyes them both shortly, but then goes back to reading. The piles have only grown in size since Ichigo left to get coffee, so he assumes Mizuiro has been by with another load. His own, thank God, has only shrunk, because Rukia isn’t the only Godsend around here.

They drink their coffee to the sound of pages turning, while Ichigo wonders exactly how much of a shitstorm this will land him in. And exactly how much Ishida beat his record with.

 

It’s dark outside before Ichigo looks at the time.

The tape had come back around noon and they’d all gathered around to find out what prophetic clues they might hear. Ishida had stayed put, his legs now on the desk, stretching them for the entire world to see and Ichigo really wanted to tell him to be decent, but he was afraid that would make him look like a prude for not allowing people to throw their legs on their furniture, even when they were as endless as Ishida’s.

When Chad had pressed play, it had sounded like all Hell had broken loose. The noise was shrill, scratchy and loud. Ishida almost fell out of his chair, which was rather endearing. And then Ichigo stopped that line of thinking and returned to being the goddamn professional he pretended he was. 

After that fiasco, Chad had transferred the file onto his computer and had then spent most of the day adjusting levels, fixing the noise and whatever needed fixing. 

During lunch-break, Inoue came up from the morgue to eat with them. She sat down next to Ishida and talked to him like they’d known each other forever. His entire demeanor changed with Inoue. Ichigo was starting to buy into the idea that it was just Ichigo he didn’t like.

Mizuiro dropped by three more times throughout the day to hand Ishida more missing persons. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch when the pile was dumped onto his desk. He soldiered on which Ichigo had to admire him for.

Late afternoon, Keigo had emerged from his lair and told them who managed the Qinghai Container Terminal security. 

“Blue Cross Security,” he’d said as he’d marched through the bullpen, waving a thick file in his hand.

“Blue Cross?” Chad had repeated, “That’s pretty high-end for a harbor.”

“I know,” Keigo said triumphantly, “but it’s them. I had to backhack the camera’s security feed, because I also found out that they transmit their data to a server at the Blue Cross Headquarters.”

“You’re saying we might have footage from the crime scene?” Ichigo asked.

Keigo smirked, “That is indeed what I’m telling you. Mizuiro’s on the phone with them now, arranging the hand-off. Who’s your daddy?”

“You are my daddy, Keigo, you are definitely my daddy,” Ichigo replied laughing. Keigo fistbumped him and then left, presumably for Mizuiro’s office.

They’d ordered take-out for dinner. There’d been no Yahtzee with the tape, no ID on their victim and Ichigo’s suspect pool had been narrowed down, but it was still far too vast for any actual arrests to be made yet. Worse was that all these perps usually worked alone and Rukia had, like Inoue, pointed out that they were probably looking at two or more offenders. 

Stealing a container wasn’t a one-man job and no yakuza ever really worked alone, but pulling off something like this usually credited one person, not smearing the entire family. This case was beginning to give him a headache.

Chad left first, then Mizuiro had clocked out at 7pm, Keigo following at 7.30. Rukia had stayed until 8pm but had been yawning like a mad man the past hour and so Ichigo had sent her home. Tatsuki had swung by telling him to go and get some sleep around 8.30 and Inoue had been by saying goodnight to them both a few minutes later.

Ishida hadn’t moved in the past hour.

Ichigo’s standing, looking at their murderboard. It’s dangerously empty. He’s on his 6th cup of coffee for today and is debating whether or not he should go get another.

Ishida closes the last file on his desk. He’s been reading at a more leisurely pace, since the threat of more incoming files had gone home. He stretches and the shirt might as well have been see-through for all the secrets it reveals about Ishida’s body. He gets up, puts on his jacket and swings the messenger bag across his shoulder, flicks off the lamp.

“I’m leaving,” he informs, as if Ichigo doesn’t have eyes.

“Thanks for your hard work,” Ichigo responds and rubs his eyes.

Ishida pauses, “You too.”

He rounds the corner, but then looks back at him and seems to make a decision, “You should go as well, you won’t be worth anything tomorrow if you stay.”

And then he leaves. 

Ichigo shakes his head with a tired sigh. He’s pulled the same kind of hours Inoue has, 17 hours straight is really not that big of a deal. But if he has to pull 17 every day for the rest of the month, that’ll be some torturous shit right there. He decides to take the advice.

He goes to the break room and dumps the rest of the coffee.

 

Ichigo’s apartment is humble. It’s located near the Saginomiya station, only a minute or so away. He’s used to the train coming and going every thinkable hour of the day. 

It’s a mess, really. He doesn’t have much personal time, mostly because he chooses not too. There’s laundry scattered everywhere, plates soaking in the sink and books open or waiting on every surface. Ichigo found reading crime novels was a nice way of relaxing, mostly because he figured out the entire plot within the first two chapters. He reads other things, but only when he’s in-between cases.

He also has a cat. At least, some days of the week. Ichigo thinks she has a weekend home where she goes and gets spoiled. But she’s here tonight, sliding in and out between his legs as he takes off his coat. He picks her up and carries her to the kitchen.

“Hungry?” he asks. He hasn’t given her a name. She’s just the grey and white cat that sometimes lives with him. 

She answers him no and he puts her down and takes a beer for himself. He read that cats don’t meow at each other, only at humans at that if someone, say Ishida, came over, he wouldn’t be able to understand her. 

At that thought he looks around. He most definitely doesn’t want Ishida to come over and see this mess.

He uncaps the beer and sits down on the couch, turns on the TV and pulls his laptop onto his thighs. The cat jumps up and settles into his side. Ichigo begins to stroke her automatically.

He decides to look up the dating profile Rukia so graciously bestowed upon him.

He finds it first click and is rather appalled with what he finds. The picture is decent; it’s from his 27th birthday and the entire gang is out celebrating. In the picture, Keigo and Mizuiro are slouching on him, both laughing, spilling their manly, colorful drinks all over. There’s a hand belonging to Rukia down in the corner and there’s a sliver of Chad in the left side. Ichigo himself looks happy. It’s not too bad. 

His information is, however. Rukia’s been to his place a lot, Hell, she even lived there at some point. She’d seen it both before and after Yuzu had been by, appalled when Karin had told her about the state of his apartment. Yuzu had come, all fiery indignation, and cleaned the entire place. The cat had fled the scene and Ichigo was honestly relieved when Mizuiro called to tell him someone had died. 

Rukia has therefore chosen to write, “The home of a person with a life and good baby sisters.” Which is a lie.

As Ichigo reads on, he discovers many things about himself he didn’t know. He’s a hunk, has a fulltime cat, has a life outside his job, likes the color green (which might have been true at some point, but today he’d be inclined to say blue), is straight (bi-erasure what up) and reads poetry in his downtime (which, what?) but his favorite book is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (which, alright). 

He prefers religious philosophy or mythology when he needs something a little more meaty than Agatha Christie. He enjoys letting people think he understand less than he does, Socratic irony and all that. He is a regular Columbo.

He then looks through the matches and those interested. They all seem shallow and fake.

His last girlfriends had been a sweet girl named Kumiko. They’d been together for more than three years until she broke up with him because she thought he was cheating on her with Rukia. Kumiko had been an art student, had been smiling and warm always. Something in her eyes sparkled like giggling and champagne. 

He closes his computer and lets his head fall to the backrest. He should probably read Ishida’s file, but he doesn’t want to dig his hole deeper than it already is. 

Because if he doesn’t bullshit himself, he’s attracted to Ishida and there’s a slew of reasons why that’s terrible. But there’s something in the way Ishida moves, like he’s a dancer to his own beat and watching him makes it hard to breathe. Oh, and so far Ishida seems to hate him.

And he’s Ichigo’s subordinate.

And he’s an asshole.

Ichigo sure knows how to pick them.

The cat’s purring next to him, the TVs showing infomercials and he decides he might as well watch it. He falls asleep on the couch, the cat keeping him company throughout the night.

 

Waking up was slightly less inspiring than falling asleep, seeing as he is woken by the cat kneading his shoulder. He strokes her while coming into consciousness, feeling the cat’s purring reverberating in his chest. The TV’s still running, he checks the time in it’s corner and groans.

The worst thing isn’t that Ichigo has another two hours before he has to leave, but that this by no means is an isolated incident. He tends to be so knackered he falls asleep on the couch and is then woken by the cat well before Tokyo even gets it’s eyes. No, the worst thing is that he wakes with a boner and he’s pretty sure he knows who put it there. Sometimes Ichigo hates how impressionable he is.

He showers, he wanks – and if he thinks about long legs and blue eyes, who’s to judge? – brushes his teeth and toasts some bread. He eats it slowly, looking out the window into the never-ending rainy streets with the cat sitting on his shoulder, watching it with him. His coffee is lukewarm because his coffee-machine has broken down like another rollercoaster ride on Coney Island. He pats the cat on the head and decides he might as well leave for the precinct. 

Morning’s are always grey, he finds.

Ichigo decides to walk as not to be ridiculously early, giving him no excuse not to look at the mountain of paperwork that’s still sitting at his desk, waiting for him to finish. He makes it to the precinct in forty minutes and paces himself to walk calmly and take the elevator. He arrives at 7.00am as he was meant to all along. He throws his rain-dusted jacket over his arm and runs a hand through his hair, brushing out the worst of the water.

Entering the bullpen is the same as clocking into a sauna. It’s humid inside, more so than hot. The thunderstorm that seems to be causing this is nowhere to be seen and Ichigo can tell it’s annoying most of his colleagues already. 

Chad’s already there, so is Rukia. Mizuiro practically lives here anyways and Ichigo spots him in the breakroom with Keigo, speaking softly amongst each other. Ichigo signals for them both to come over. It’s about five minutes later when they do, because they thought to make coffee for them.

“We all here?” he asks and divests himself of his jacket. 

Rukia shakes her head, “Probie’s missing.”

“Should I call him?” Mizuiro offers and flips open his ever-present phone.

“No need,” Chad announces and nods towards the elevator. Ishida’s just stepping out of it, pulling earbuds out and twisting them around his fingers. He looks windswept and tousled and it’s nice, Ichigo thinks, knowing he’s not bathed in chemicals to keep his appearance pristine.

He’s wearing a suit again today, a dark blue jacket and pants, striped shirt and an off-white tie. Ichigo has to take a deep breath and remind himself, surely not for the first time today, that he’s supposed to be a professional.

“You’re late,” he says as Ishida makes his way to his desk.

“Have you started the briefing yet?” he retorts, slipping out of his jacket and putting the satchel onto the desk. 

Ichigo frowns, “No.“

“Then I’m not late, am I?”

He sits down looking entirely too smug for Ichigo’s liking. 

“For future-reference, we start at 7am.”

Ishida purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Lab results have come back and there’s very little to tell. There’s no fingerprints in the container or on the tape, no DNA-evidence to run against our database. The shoe-print is too generic to get a match but we know the perpetrator is male from the size of it. We’ve already run our victim’s DNA-profile, but no matches against it. We didn’t get any results doing it longhand, so we’re left with the tape for now,” Rukia passes out a folder with the results while she speaks. 

Ichigo skims the data and feels his shoulders grow heavy. 

“I kept working the tape after I came home yesterday. I have a transcript of its contents,” Chad says and tacks it to the board. It speaks volumes that Ichigo expected that he would. Nobody working at the Keishicho has much of a life outside it.

“Can we hear it?” Ichigo asks and steps over to the board, reading the transcript Chad has made. It’s chilling to say the least.

Chad only nods and presses play.

“Well, well, well. There’s hope for them yet,” the voice purrs. It feels as if the room drops in temperature right then and there. It’s a little distorted, but the words are clear if a little pitched. He recognizes the cadence, the slithering quality of it.

He reaches over and pauses the recording. “It’s the same guy that called me,” he interrupts, but presses play again.

“I’ve devised a little game for you, Kurosaki Ichigo. I do so like games and I’m sure you do too.” 

Ichigo had played soccer during his college-years and he, Chad, Mizuiro, Inoue and Keigo still had a Dungeons and Dragons guild when their workload wasn’t too pressing. And he’s become a homicide detective, which often seems to be one big game of Clue. He swallows.

“I’ve taken the liberty to make a few rules, after all, what’s a game without rules?” he chuckles. Ichigo keeps reading the transcript.

“There’s ten rounds, nine really, seeing as the first one is coming to a close. Time is of the essence, Kurosaki, as I’m sure you know. Every round you get the chance to save a life. Should you fail to comply with the following rules, they will be begging for death right up until you find them, pleading with their captors to end their miserable existence.”

Ichigo looked over his shoulder, saw Rukia take notes. Torture’s sadly not very specific in the world of sadists. Ishida’s frowning gently, as if lost in thought elsewhere. The only thing that kept Ichigo from calling him back, is the way he stares at the pile of missing persons. 

“The rules are as following. Firstly, don’t involve the public.”

Mizuiro shakes his head, probably wanting to release their victim to the press, hoping someone out there would be able to put a name to him, a life.

“Secondly, don’t try others for help. Your little band of merry men are of course exempt, I know how these investigations are. But going elsewhere, I’d consider that cheating after all the hard work I put into this little game of ours. That’s it. I should think two rules would be sufficient and easy to remember, no? Even for an inbred of Shizuoka.”

Rukia pauses again, “Not try others for help?”

“I don’t know,” Ichigo says. “Is that it?”

Chad shakes his head and presses play again.

“And last: A winged oxen there. A saintly old man appears. Play the loosing hand. Remember, someone’s life is on the line.”

And then the tape ended.

 

Ichigo and Rukia listen the tape another six times.

Keigo had immediately suggested he do a simple Google-search, to which Ichigo had shaken his head.

“Don’t,” he’d said, “We can’t try others for help.”

“The internet isn’t somebody,” Keigo’d objected.

Ichigo had rubbed his eyes, “I don’t want to take that chance.”

Keigo hadn’t argued further, which Ichigo had considered a win.

Mizuiro had then asked, “What do you want us to do then?”

“For now, find out why he thinks I’m from Shizuoka.”

Ichigo’s born and bred Edokko, he’s never lived anywhere but Tokyo. His youngest sister, Yuzu, has moved to Sapporo. She’d gotten a scholarship to go practically anywhere and had chosen the city of the winter festival. And beer. Apparently she’d become quite a connoisseur, she’d wrinkled the nose at the ones Ichigo had brought over last time the entire family was together. She’d then produced the most delicious batch of drunken chicken Ichigo’s ever tasted and still had the gall to say it would’ve been better with actual beer and not watered barley.

“Can you make us some copies of this?” she asks Ishida as she hands him the transcript tightly written with notes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even ask where the copier is. Ichigo frowns and watches him go.

“Should I take down your profile?” 

Ichigo turns his head and sees her, lifted eyebrows and pure innocence written all over her features. He shakes his head, “Shut up.”

She chuckles, sobers and uncaps her pen, “Well, he’s smart. Probably well-read, confident bordering on cocksure and arrogant.”

“It’s his second day, we’ll set him straight.”

“And while I was talking about our suspect, your mind was in the gutter,” she clicks her tongue and waves her pen in front of her, “Do I need remind you of how your last office-romance ended?”

It had ended with an empty apartment and a cat as his housemate. Sorry, part-time housemate.

“I told you it was a bad idea. She was too … too much of everything, really.”

Ishida chooses that moment to come back and that effectively closes the conversation. He hands them both fresh, hot copies of the transcript, “Anything else?”

“Un-piling,” Rukia says and nods towards the stack of folders on Ichigo’s desk. They’re reports. They’re all roughed out, none of them finished and it’s slave work. While it may not require brain to clean them up, it’s a job that requires time and patience and being caught in a case like this with heaps and heaps of paperwork is death for the soul.

It’s with a carefully blank face that he reaches out for the first and sits back down. He powers up the computer and starts typing. 

Chad reappears and with him, he has a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. Ichigo smiles, but it quickly becomes a grin. It’s a tired stereotype, but there’s nothing better than a boost of sugar with a terrible cup of coffee to sharpen your mind. They’re handed out, Ishida taking a plain one, thanks Chad, and continues writing up Ichigo’s reports.

“A winged oxen there, a saintly old man appears, play the loosing hand,” Rukia repeats while chewing her donut. 

“We all agree that this is a riddle?” Ichigo asks and picks up his cup of coffee. They all nod and he breathes out. “What do we have then?”

“A winged oxen, an old man and the last I don’t know.”

“It’s haiku,” Ishida adds from the sideline.

Ichigo nods, “Okay, so he’s restricted by the rules of haiku.”

“I wonder about the saintly old man. That’s a loaded word, only religious connotations.” Rukia wipes her hands on a napkin.

Ichigo nods, “Are we looking for a saint then?”

“Could be,” Chad hums.

“Do we know any saints with sidekick-cows?” Rukia asks and Ichigo sits down next to her, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I remember my grandfather said the ox belonged to the saint of butchers.” Chad dunks his pastry into the coffee. His grandfather was Mexican and a catholic. Chad grew up with him and was as such raised as a catholic. He’d been sent to his grandfather when he’d been five because his mother had developed an alcohol problem. His grandfather had taught Chad everything he knew about moral and ethics. Ichigo would say he did a damn good job of that.

“St. Luke.”

Ichigo snaps his head towards Ishida who’s still typing his reports, “What did you say?”

“St. Luke,” he repeats and adds, “He’s also the patron saint for surgeons and artists.”

“There’s a St. Luke’s hospital not far from the harbor.”

“That would be a perfect place to hide a dying person,” Rukia adds.

“Where?” Ichigo demands.

“Chuo,” Chad says. 

Ichigo gets up and pulls on his jacket, “Come on.”

He didn’t have to mention the possibility of another life in the balance.

“Probie!”

Ishida looks up. He gets the message and quickly puts on his ridiculously well-fitting dark trench coat.

All four hurries out the door as if the Devil himself is on their heels.

 

The hospital smells like sickness and health, as death parting families and loved ones from each other. Something in the air throws Ichigo back to his childhood, those many days spend in the halls with his sisters running back and forth, left and right. The elderly patients seemed to love it when his father brought them to work. 

His dad was a nurse. He has every credential and diploma needed to become a doctor, but Kurosaki Isshin had found that he made a far greater difference as a nurse. He once told Ichigo that he had relatives of his patients coming up to him and talking to him. They had been grateful to him, for the care he’d taken for their loved one. “We’re getting busier and busier, Ichigo. Sometimes the best gift you can give someone is your time,” he’d said a dark evening in October, when the rains had been falling and the leaves had been plucked from the branches.

Rukia looks around and draws a sharp breath, “How’re we going to find a possibly injured person in a hospital?”

“I’m sure he’s told us,” Ichigo says and looks to Chad.

“Play the losing hand,” he agrees and reaches for his phone, but stops. Calling Keigo with this might still be against the rules.

Ichigo rubs his eyes, “What game?”

“Cardgame, you don’t have hands elsewhere.”

“Are we sure it’s this literal?” Rukia asks.

“Oicho-Kabu,” Ishida exclaims.

Chad catches on, “Oicho-Kabu?”

“The losing hand, uh,” Ishida stumbles, “8-9-3, it’s a homophone for Yakuza.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Rukia says.

Ichigo turns on his heel and all but runs to the desk, “Room 893, what ward is that?”

The secretary looks flustered, stutters but never says anything. It isn’t until Ichigo takes out his badge that she types, corrects, types and then looks up, “O-oncology.”

“The city of Tokyo thanks you ma’am,” Ichigo smiles, strained but there. And they run. The reach the 800-hall and speed down the laminated floors. Rukia’s running in heels, clicking and ticking all the way there, setting a desperate beat to their run.

“Wait,” Ishida shouts then and turns, “Here!”

They gather outside the door, out of breath, hoping they aren’t too late. Ichigo signals for Ishida to get behind him. He’ll run point and secure and then have Rukia follow him. He unfastens his gun and while it’s highly unlikely they’ll shoot anybody inside, it’s always a good element in persuading people to stop running or doing their evil deeds.

Chad opens the door and Ichigo steps inside, losing heart the minute he does.

“Ichigo?” Rukia calls.

“Yeah, it’s clear,” he pockets his gun and sighs.

The room’s as clean and white as every last inch of the hospital, except for the wall directly behind the bed. In bold, red letters is reads, “Not fast enough.”

A bag of blood had been thrown onto the floor, spilling its guts. Chad walks in and shakes his head, while he gets out his phone. He calls CSU.

Ishida slips around Ichigo to the bed. Ichigo wants to tell him off, to not disturb the crime-scene, but he has a feeling Ishida would call him a hypocrite and roll his eyes at him. And that has Ichigo stop. He doesn’t want Ishida to dislike him. Doesn’t want Ishida to dislike him more, that is.

Ishida picks up a framed photo, “It’s his father.”

“What?”

He flips it towards them and a by now familiar face peers back at them. 

“I’ll find the nurse and get their family details,” sighs Rukia and leaves.

Ishida keeps looking at the photo as if he can tell every secret the victim ever had simply by looking at it. There’s something oddly serene about the image.

“Hikaru?” 

Ishida looks to the bed and then to Ichigo who, too, has frozen.

“Hikaru? Where’s Hikaru?” It’s like hearing the last grains in an hourglass talk. It’s rough, quiet, tired. 

“Hikaru’s your son?” Ishida asks, kneels and looks to Ichigo again. 

Ichigo walks over, but in that moment the CSU arrives and he’s treated with the most potent glare he’s ever received. And he understands. The case has only been active in 36 hours but the absolute failure to provide viable leads and evidence has most of the CSU and Coroner’s Office on edge. 

Tatsuki had stopped by during lunch today and told them Inoue had called her last night to curse sulfur on this case. Shun had been in Kyoto with his job and therefor Inoue had no one to vent to. Ichigo was 75% positive that Shun knew some of the most intimate secrets of the NPA because of Inoue.

“Ishida-san,” Akon, one of the few Ichigo didn’t mind, called out. Ishida moves to stand, but an old hand reaches out before he straightened. Ishida pauses.

“Probie,” Ichigo nods for him to come to them, but something had Ishida staying. He looks back down at the old man.

“Are you one of Hikaru’s friends?” the old man asked, “is he with you?”

And Ichigo sees it. That spark of insubordination in his eyes. “Ishida, you–“

“Do you know where he is? He’s all I have left, he’s all–“

The old man’s crying. They can hear his sobs, Ichigo thinks he sees tears tripping down his cheek. Ishida sits down again and takes the old man’s hand, anchoring him almost. 

“Ishida!” he hisses, one last attempt.

He throws one look over his shoulder and Ichigo knows Ishida isn’t moving away on his own accord then, “He’s dying.”

Ichigo can’t help but feel his stomach clench. The words over the bed all but screams in his face and then there’s Ishida disobeying orders to sit through the passing, the very premonition that has Ichigo’s blood simmering. He’s about to say something when the old man says:

“You know Hikaru? Is he with you?”

Ishida nods, hushed and strangely gentle. The line of his shoulders has Ichigo press his lips together. He gets it. There’s nothing worse than telling someone they’ve lost a child, that they’re alone now, that they’re never going to say goodbye properly. 

“Thank goodness, thank you so much,” the old man babbles and splutters. Ishida just sits with him until he quiets. The entire room falls and everybody waits. Something in Ishida shifts. He leans forward and presses his fingers to the throat of the old man.

“He’s dead,” he announces quietly. 

Ishida gets up, almost solemnly and carefully makes his way back to the door. Akon huffs and shakes his head, as if to encompass every homicide-investigator in the box of shitheads that don’t give a damn about work-politics and ethics. 

Ichigo grabs Ishida and leads him outside. 

Rukia’s there waiting for him, but she reads his face and probably heard what went on from the other bystanders. She holds her peace and waits Ichigo out while he guides Ishida a little further down the hall. 

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Ichigo starts and he can tell Ishida’s gearing up to be difficult. But then …

“You didn’t see his face,” Ishida says then, voice low and sad.

Ichigo sighs and rubs his face, “Next time I’ll suspend you.”

He turns and leaves Ishida there, but he feels the other’s eyes dragging after him. 

“We have a name,” Rukia says when he returns. 

And finally, it seems like the winds change.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s three days before the second victim is processed. Inoue looks particularly saddened when she hears his final words.

“That’s just like him,” she mutters as she runs her hand along the autopsy table. Her fingers leave a ghost of warmth along the edge. 

“Like Ishida?” Ichigo questions. She has an eerie ability of knowing people truly within a day or two of meeting them. She’s rarely wrong about a person’s intent and morals.

Inoue hums and doesn’t explain. And in some ways, Ichigo never expected her to. She finds her chart and comes to stand in front of him.

“You ready?” she asks and he nods. It’s very rare they’re alone like this. Usually Chad’s with him, but he’s making the final adjustments to the last tape. They found it among the victim’s personal belongings. Rukia’s rendezvousing with Renji, trying to run their latest leads by him, seeing if anything strikes him as familiar. And Ishida’s doing menial labor at Ichigo’s behest. It hadn’t seemed to please him, but he’d done as he was told. For fucking once.

Ichigo isn’t the type for carrying grudges but he also has to act the lieutenant Rukia keeps reminding him he is. So for now, he’s benched Ishida. It’s only been a trip to Blue Cross Security he had to sit out on. It’s also what’s currently keeping Ishida busy.

They’d gone to Blue Cross Security yesterday. Ishida had put on his jacket with a bemused look before Ichigo had looked at him once and said, “You’re staying here.”

“What? Why?” Ishida had inquired and frowned. He’d looked so young then.

“Because you disobeyed a direct order, that’s why,” Ichigo had answered tiredly and shrugged on his coat. 

Ishida had looked positively livid, “What? So you’re benching me?”

“Yes,” and then he’d left with Chad and Rukia.

Chad had put a hand on Ichigo’s shoulder as they walked to his car, “You’re doing your job.”

It’s strange how a statement from Chad can be so comforting. Because while it’s plain to see that Ishida doesn’t exactly like him, Ichigo still hates being the enforcer and creating tension where none is needed. But the rules are the rules and there’s a reason for them to be there. That Ichigo himself has broken nigh all of them is smoothly forgotten. While this incident turned out all right, it could’ve been a clusterfuck of trouble and in that situation Ichigo would be responsible for Ishida’s life and then he needed him to listen to him. Ichigo was the more experienced between them. And he actually carried a gun, for fuck’s sake!

They made to Blue Cross ten minutes before Mizuiro had scheduled their appointment. Ichigo had a hard time dealing with these things; he didn’t understand why he’d have to arrange a meeting when justice was on the line. 

The door’s opened for them as they approached the black-glass building, a blue pentacle followed by Blue Cross in heavy, authoritative writing labelling the building.

“Welcome to Blue Cross Security, how may we help you today?” a young woman asked. She looked neat and professional, the personification of efficiency. The lobby was open and the ceiling went all the way to a glass-roof, letting in the afternoon light. 

It looked nothing like their precinct and Ichigo was starting to think privatization wouldn’t be too bad. He’d heard a lot of cops turned to private security when they broke. He could see the perks of working somewhere like this.

“We have an appointment with the chairman,” Rukia replied and showed her badge. Ichigo’s was out before he even registered he’d gone for it. It was a habit by now.

“He’s waiting for you in Conference Room 5, it’s on the 8th floor, second door to the right,” she smiled. 

They thanked her and walked to the elevators. Unlike the Keishicho’s elevators, these didn’t seem like deathtraps. 

The conference room was airy, huge, but first and foremost cold. Inside a man was waiting for them. He had little to no hair, filled out his suit, but it was tailored to him so it never looked wrong. He stood when he saw them and gave them his hand, introducing himself as the chairman, though they could call him Honda.

“I understand you’re interested in the security footage from Isewan?” He gestured for a tray with water bottles on it. Rukia took one and nodded in response.

“Do you have a warrant?” he sounded pleasant enough, but Ichigo could tell he wouldn’t give them anything unless they did. He pulled out the package and slid it across the table.

“Follow me, please.”

He stood and led them out of the conference room. They took the elevator down to the basement while Honda skimmed their warrant. He took them to an office, tight and closed. A few people sat in there, typing away and talking into headsets. They were speaking an array of languages and all seemed to type with laser-speed. 

“Akiyama-san?” Honda called and a woman with short-cropped hair removed her headset and turned her head to them, “The police would like our surveillance from Isewan.”

Akiyama nodded and stood. Honda spoke again, “You take it from here. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

He left the room without further ado. 

“This way,” she said and walked them across the hall. She crouched down and swiped her card. A humming began and after another two minutes she handed them a hard drive.

“This is all of it?” Ichigo asked.

“It is,” she said and rose to her feet. “Let me walk you upstairs.”

The walk was quiet until they reached the elevator where the music streaming through the speakers were Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Piano Concerto if he wasn’t mistaken. Now that he thought about it, there’d been music throughout the building. 

“Did you register an attack on your firewalls four days ago?” Rukia questioned her.

Akiyama nodded, “We’ve improved internal security since. We had to stave him off real time. I don’t know if they got into our servers but if they did, they couldn’t have done much.”

“Honda-san seemed rather unwilling to help,” Rukia continued, prying subtly.

“We haven’t had good experiences with the police in the past. We were founded as an alternative to blind faith in the Tokyo PD.” Akiyama seems entirely unrepentant.

They reached the lobby. She didn’t leave the elevator. Instead she nodded to them and rode back down. The three of them exchanged looks.

“Blind faith in the Tokyo PD?” Rukia repeated.

Ichigo shook his head and started towards the door. As they were going through it, a man with silver-white hair and hauntingly familiar eyes passed them. He was dressed sharply in a light-grey suit. He smelled like smoke and leather, like prestige and sorrow and the way he carried himself spoke of importance. 

Ichigo watched him over his shoulder as the man carefully placed his jacket onto the counter. Honda hurried to greet him and Ichigo got the sense he was the head of this operation. They drove back to the precinct quietly discussing strange attitudes of the employees.

“You think they might be mixed up in this?” Rukia tried, asking the unnecessary but required question. It’s mostly why she’s so good at her job, she asks the questions that needs asking. Rukia had taught him, the Devil’s in the details. 

“I doubt it. They’re weird, yeah, but they aren’t psychopaths.” Ichigo looked out the window, wondering if Ishida was still angry. He hoped not. 

He was. He’d refused to speak to him, resorting to looking disdainfully at him when he spoke instead. On the flipside, the mountain of paperwork was diminished and it’d been done to the T. So when Ishida had glared at him for the fifth time, Ichigo had sent him to AV-room and handed him the hard drive.

Inoue takes a breath before she talks, “His name’s Sato Jiro-san, 66 years old, male. He died of botulin poisoning –“

“Botulin poisoning?” Ichigo interrupts.

Inoue nods, “There was nothing you could’ve done. If the botulin hadn’t killed him, the lung cancer would’ve. It was administered to him through his IV. He choked to death.”

“Anything else?”

“He had this,” she says and removed the sheet. A black circle dots his chest and Ichigo’s hundred percent sure that this is a signature now. It’s painted on with what looks like regular ink. He’s not sure what to think about this sudden bout of cleanliness and mercy.

“Thanks, Inoue,” he says but he doesn’t leave. She covers him back up and like this, he could be sleeping.

She rests her lower back on one of the empty tables, watches him, “You okay, Kurosaki-kun?”

“Yeah. Ishida’s been giving me shit because I’ve benched him until further notice.”

“And?”

“What do you mean and?”

“Kurosaki-kun, you’ve never been this upset about someone’s opinion before.” She’s smiling faintly, like she’s keeping a secret. She looks like that when she talks about Shun as well.

“How’s Shun?” he tries to divert. 

“He’s fine, but we’re not talking about him now,” she brushes him off and looks at him. Her eyes bore directly into his and he knows he’s not the one doing the interrogating. Inoue would’ve made a frightfully good detective.

Inoue lifts her eyebrows.

He doesn’t give her the satisfaction.

“You like him!” she suddenly exclaims and takes her hands up to her mouth. “Does he know?”

“Keep it down, the entire precinct doesn’t need to know,” Ichigo chides, “And no, while I find him attractive, I can’t stand him.”

She smiles softly at him and he sighs, rubs his eyes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“You’re very quick to decide whether or not you like someone, Kurosaki-kun. It was the same with Kumiko-chan,” Inoue looks wistful, looking away from him.

“Kumiko was different, she actually liked me back,” Ichigo mumbles and scratches the back of his head.

Inoue shakes her head, “Give him a chance, he might be nicer than you think.”

 

When he returns to the bullpen, Keigo’s there waiting for him. He hands him a dossier and walks with him to his desk. He shanghaies the chair before Ichigo even gets a chance. He sighs, but knows it’s a lost battle. Instead, he begins leafing through the file.

“That Sato Hikaru’s file?” Rukia asks as she reappears, a cup of coffee in her hand. Ichigo’s already had four today and it’s only 2pm.

“How’s Renji?”

“Still nothing. He doesn’t recognize the signature and he most definitely doesn’t know any kumicho who’d go through this much trouble to simply taunt homicide. As far as we can see, it’s a dead end.” She sips her coffee and nods to the file, “So, who’s our victim?”

“There’s not much more to tell. He was a parking guard, 34, single. He lived in Shibuya in his parent’s old house. He was average in each and every way, there’s nothing about this man that screams victim to me.” Ichigo says and shakes his head.

“And what did Inoue say about him?” Rukia nods towards the board where Sato Senior’s face is staring them down with a hard look. He looks nothing like the man Ishida had comforted in his last minutes.

“Botulin.”

“Poison?”

Ichigo nods. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Rukia sighs and leans on the table. 

Keigo looks to her, “Anything in this mess that does?”

“Poison is, behaviorally speaking, usually a strong indicator that the perpetrator is female. And it’s wildly different from maiming and impaling someone.”

Ichigo goes to stand in front of the board, looking between the two men, the differences in their deaths are striking. Sato Hikaru was viciously slaughtered and his father was killed without shedding a single drop of blood.

Ichigo shakes his head, “Are we sure it’s the same person?”

“I don’t think it is. Unless he suffered a psychotic break this can’t possibly be one person. The person who killed Sato Hikaru thrived on his pain and the person who killed his father seemed almost regretful for having to do so.”

“So we’re looking for two people now?” Keigo’s head falls back, his mouth open in exhaustion.

“Or someone with inhuman self-control and no sexual connection to his MO, who knows that we’d draw the conclusion of two perpetrators after considering the behavior between the two murders.” Rukia says and takes another drink.

“I’ve heard it said before, I wanna say it again: This gift sucks, Ichigo.” Keigo spun around in his chair and Ichigo was only too inclined to agree.

“If you’re done,” Chad looks to Rukia, “I’ve finished the tape,” he announces.

“Yeah,” she breathes out.

Ichigo runs a hand through his hair, “I’ll get Ishida.”

Rukia gives him a wary look. He hurries before she starts asking him unpleasant questions.

The walk to the AV-room is an unfamiliar one. His cases usually break wide open after 48 hours and they rarely have use of surveillance. But this is shaping up to be a drawn out game of cloak and daggers. He had one case like it before. It had coincidentally been the one that had saddled him with Chad as a partner. It had been his first serial homicide. Back then he’d been wet behind the ears, now he just felt inadequate. Sometimes it sucks being the point-break of all and every investigation. There’s this odd nonverbal agreement that the cases that didn’t break within 12 hours were his. 

He doesn’t mind having people rely on him, but he can’t shoulder that on his own. People, especially those closest to him, seem to have no idea how much he needs their support.

He knocks on the door to the room he’d banished Ishida to yesterday. He hasn’t been back since, unsure of what he should say to him. He feels his stomach flutter as if there’s actually something to be nervous about. After the third knock, he opens and steps through.

If the bullpens were hot, this is Hell on Earth. 

Ishida looks unaffected though. His face is illuminated by the bluish TV-light, he is tapping his fingers against the armrest, legs, those impossibly long legs, folded under him. He pulls out his headphones and looks to Ichigo, not like he’d heard him, but as if he was going to head up to them on his own accord. Ishida pauses the video and looks to him.

“Chad’s done with the tape,” Ichigo says.

Ishida lifts his eyebrow, “Am I allowed to hear that now that I’m benched?”

Ichigo takes a deep breath. It’s like there’s a sixth sense buried deep in his bones that just knows when Ishida’s gearing up to be difficult and right now it’s blaringly obvious that it was right. Ishida’s eyes haven’t left him yet.

“When you prove you can follow orders, you’ll be back on duty,” Ichigo points out.

“I wasn’t in any danger, I–“

“You could’ve been and as your supervisor it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re not, at least not until you learn how to handle yourself,” Ichigo interrupts.

Ishida stands up, brushes his shirt, “I’m not dead yet.”

“No, but you don’t carry a gun. And until you do, you follow orders, is that understood?”

Ishida has the curtesy to look somewhat ashamed, as shamed as he can. 

“I don’t want you benched, but I don’t want you killed either, so there’s that.”

“I get it, you don’t have to rub it in,” he mutters. 

Ichigo frowns, “Why don’t you carry a gun?”

He holds the door for Ishida to pass through and walks up next to him.

“Failed my qualifications,” he answers.

“That’s not in your file.”

“I asked for it to be left out.”

They turn a corner, passing by the break room. The heat is almost unbearable this time of day. Every window has been thrown open, but it doesn’t make any discernable difference. The thunderstorm that they’ve been expecting since day one of this investigation has not shown its face yet. Instead, it looms over them, keeping the weather humid and oppressive.

“Why?” Ichigo pries and hopes it isn’t discovered.

“Because I really wanted this probationary.”

Ichigo’s heart thuds hard, once, before he reminds himself it most likely has nothing to do with him personally. He tries not to let it show. They reach Ichigo’s desk. Ishida sits down in his chair, while Ichigo’s still relegated to stand since Keigo has yet to leave. 

“Transcript?” he asks.

Chad inclines his head to the board and Ichigo immediately starts reading. Chad presses play, sensing Ichigo’s already begun chewing over the words.

“How do you like the game so far, Kurosaki Ichigo?” he’s practically licking the words.

“Not too much, honestly,” Ichigo mumbles.

“I did him a favor, he wouldn’t have lived long either way. Of course, if you hadn’t been squandering my time having your intern type up your reports you might’ve gotten there sooner.” 

Rukia pauses the tape, “Why’s he focusing on that? Ishida’s not the trophy here.”

Ishida looks torn between relief and being offended.

“We don’t know that yet,” Chad says and starts the recording again. Ishida’s face is golden.

“Why, you ask, would that have made a difference? Well, you see, Kurosaki, I tell them a secret or two they can pass on to you, it makes it all a little more motivating, doesn’t it?”

“That’s perverted,” Rukia growls. 

Ichigo keeps his eyes on the words. He wants to grab the tape and throw it out the window, wants to trash it, stomp it to smithereens, he wants to, but he doesn’t. If he can’t control himself, he has no business being in the field.

“Onwards, no?” the voice chuckles and then says, “1962. Towering, a colossus. No money burned. Let the second round commence.”

Ichigo looks away from the transcript. “Happy hunting,” he says in time with the voice.

 

He reads the transcript another seven times, then another 15. It’s beginning to feel eerily similar to the first round. Now there’s even more pressure on them, to find the victim in time. It seems like every time they take a step forward they’re pushed back two. 

Ichigo scrubs his face and looks through the dossier Keigo had given him. Sato Hikaru was every bit as unremarkable in life as his death had been the exact opposite. He’d graduated high school with mediocre grades, hadn’t gone to university, had instead drifted, worked the odd job here and there. He got married at 32 to a 24-year-old receptionist, but divorced her three years after. In the meantime, he’d gotten a stable job as a parking guard for the state. There was nothing in the file to suggest that he’d lived on the shady side of life. 

He looked at the photo they’d finally gotten of him. He looked so normal then. Alive. If Ichigo had passed him on the street he wouldn’t remember his face. 

Chad has been running point on the botulin all afternoon, nothing coming up yet. Keigo has been sorting through all the cameras from St. Luke’s, trying to catch a glimpse of anything untoward. Mizuiro has been hounding and herding the press the past few days, using every favor he’s saved up to keep the story from breaking. He’d been by earlier today, dropping off what witness statements he’d been able to intercept from the press. Rukia’s staring at the board, nose almost touching the white lacquer. Like him, she feels as if there’s something they’ve missed.

And Ishida returned to his cave. 

They’d worked out a list with events from 1962. They’d tried as best the could without doing a google search. Mizuiro had sent someone to the library after one of those annuals for 1962. It would be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles, but it would be better than nothing. 

It had arrived half an hour ago, but it’s still unopened on his desk.

Ichigo’d hesitated. He hadn’t been sure, still isn’t, whether or not the library was breaking the rules as well. 

He’s starting to lose the usual brashness that characterizes his style of police work. It feels as if his hands are tied and there’s little to nothing to do about it.

He taps his pencil on the list and shakes his head.   
\- The founding of Taco Bell (Keigo)  
\- The Beatles (Chad)  
\- The Vietnam War (Mizuiro)  
\- The Cold War (Mizuiro again)  
\- The triple train disaster outside Tokyo (Mizuiro was on a roll)   
\- Rwanda, Algeria, Burundi and Jamaica gaining their independence (Again)  
\- The death of Marilyn Monroe (Keigo, unsurprisingly)  
\- The release of Dr. No (Rukia, who does love James Bond)  
\- The Cuban missile crisis (Mizuiro, apparently an expert in 1962 politics and wars)  
\- The Der Spiegel Scandal. (Ishida)

Ichigo hadn’t known what the last one was, but Ishida had told him it had warranted the name scandal. So far though, nothing popped. He had no idea how to put Marilyn Monroe’s death or the Vietnam War in context with a something insanely tall and that didn’t burn any money. 

“Ichigo?” Tatsuki calls and touches his shoulder. He turns his head to her. She’s standing with her jacket over her arm and Inoue behind her. 

“Yeah, what’s up?”

She looks at the board, then back to him, “We’re going out to eat.”

“Okay?”

“We thought you should come.”

“I still have some work to do, sorry.”

Tatsuki nods. She knows not to argue with that. Instead, she asks Chad and Rukia. They both accept gracefully and after five minutes, they’ve rounded up Keigo and Mizuiro as well. They all look terrible, with Tatsuki as the exception. She hasn’t been called out the last three days and has used them to catch up on her sleep. Which really is the smart thing to do.

Ichigo goes to the breakroom instead and makes a cup of coffee. He pulls a sandwich from the vending machine. He sits back down at his desk and puts up his feet while he eats. 

So far, it’s like they only know what he wants them to know. 

CSU finds nothing nowhere; Inoue can only tell them so much. They have no upper-hand to play and it really feels as if the 8-9-3 was a prediction as much as a clue.

He takes a sip of coffee. They’ve been trying to build victimology. The one glaringly obvious connection between the two has been their family relation. It could be a family-annihilator, but nothing in their backgrounds suggest ties with organized crime. 

Sato Jiro was an army man. He’d seen Hiroshima and survived, had then worked as a city-planner. From what they could see from his house, he’d been obsessed with it – he still had old schematics on his walls. So engrossed in his work he’d been that he hadn’t paid attention when his wife had had a stroke and fallen down the stairs, breaking her neck. He’d been working in his office and had only discovered when he’d emerged at 7pm to eat the dinner she was supposed to make for him. 

He’d started smoking then, had smoked until he got cancer for it. 

Ishida smokes too.

Ichigo had seen him step outside earlier today. He’d been standing in the downpour, somehow remaining dry. Only a few droplets rested on his shoulders when he came back in. He’d caught Ichigo watching him and frowned, “What?”

“Nothing,” Ichigo shook his head.

He can still see the smoke leaving Ishida’s mouth and it has him sighing and downing his coffee.

 

It’s 11pm when he looks at the clock again. He decided to pull personnel files from St. Luke’s and do it long hand. His neck is stiff as a board, but at least he’s doing something. That’s probably his greatest downfall. He can’t sit on his hands and do nothing if there’s still something, anything to do. He doesn’t quit and he most definitely doesn’t laze about when others need him. Ichigo doesn’t have much free-time. He has almost a month of vacation-days though.

Seeing as it’s shit o’clock in the evening and he still has another 40 files to go through, he picks up his mug, intending for another cup of coffee.

He sees Ishida in there. He feels the slightest of shivers running down his spine. He’s looking through cabinets, opening them, closing them, reopening them.

“You’re still here,” he says by way of greeting and sees the others almost bang his head against the cabinet he’s currently ransacking. Ichigo doesn’t know why it’s endearing when Ishida’s surprised into harm’s way.

He straightens and looks to Ichigo, “Yeah. I still have two days of footage to go through.”

“Two days?”

“Yeah, 12 hours from nine different angles quickly multiplies,” he mutters. “Where’re the coffee-cups?”

Ichigo points to it, pouring his own coffee. 

“Starbucks closed?” he asks. Ishida’s never taken his coffee from the precinct before. He seems inclined to defy rain and weather to get his coffee elsewhere.

Ishida shakes his head, “Too far away.”

“You’re not gone that long,” Ichigo counters. That slipped out on it’s own. Now it sound like he watches him all the time. Granted, he kind of does, but Ishida isn’t supposed to know.

“There’s a cart outside the Keishicho.” He doesn’t bother sounding superior, just tired. Maybe that’s why they’re having this civil a conversation.

“How do you like your coffee then?” Ichigo offers and takes the mug from Ishida’s hands. He might not be good with the machine itself, but he’s lived with its produce for three years. He’s gotten it down to a science now, how additives can mask the too bitter coffee, the taste of black.

Ishida lifts his eyebrow, “Like my men.”

“And how do you like them?” Something in Ishida’s eyes has him missing a fraction of a beat. Ichigo’s had banter like this before. Keigo derives great pleasure from pushing stereotypes of every kind his way. But – 

Ishida looks almost careful when he replies, “Are you flirting with me, Kurosaki?”

“What? No!” Ichigo splutters and manages to push his mug into the sink where his coffee is lost to it. He composes himself and repeats, “No.”

Ishida plucks his cup from Ichigo’s hands and merely shrugs, “Shame.”

And leaves Ichigo standing there like a grade A idiot with coffee-stains on his shirt and the beginnings of a boner in his pants.

 

Ichigo barely sleeps. The cat’s out on other business and he’s got the entire apartment to himself. He tosses and turns in his bed. His sheets are crumbled and his eyes are hurting, but he can’t for the life of him sleep. 

His stained shirt is hanging on the back of a chair and it’s like it’s mocking him.

And then he remembers the look in Ishida’s eyes and he gets the feeling it isn’t. His friends constantly tease him with his obliviousness and he lets them. It’s easier if they think he doesn’t know Inoue was in love with him, that he doesn’t know Keigo and Mizuiro have a beneficiary attached to their friendship, that Rukia feels he was promoted too fast, hoping she would’ve gotten it herself.

There’s a lot of things they don’t want him to know, it seems. 

Ishida’s eyes had been fragilely blue. 

Ichigo sits up and leans against the radiator. In the summer it’s wonderfully cool, in the winter it’s lovely and warm. He doesn’t have a neither headboard, nor frame for his bed. He has two naked mattresses next to each other, he doesn’t need anymore.

He turned on the heat when he came home, feeling cold. While the entire city of Tokyo feels humid and hot, his apartment just feels cold. 

He sometimes wonder if Kumiko left because of this. They couldn’t even figure out how to make a bed. Ichigo had come to love it, maybe because he hadn’t slept in anything else for a long time. 

Something scratches on the window pane and Ichigo leans up and opens it. The cat jumps into the bed and tucks itself into his side. He closes the window and smiles. At least he won’t be sleeping alone tonight.

 

He wakes when his phone rings. He fumbles for it, grabs it, but can’t pull it to his ears because it’s still caught in the charger. He rips it out and answers. Answers is rather generous, he grumbles into the phone.

“Ichigo!” Mizuiro all but shouts at him. 

Ichigo sighs and rubs his eyes. The cat looks displeased as well, but she just turns away, because she’s not a police officer with responsibilities and terrible hours. “Speaking.”

“I know it’s late, but listen,” and Ichigo does, covering his eyes all the while, “Keigo and I, after the whole dinner thing we went back to my place and after we’d … discussed baseball,” and Ichigo rolls his eyes so far back that he can see his brain, because how the fuck do they think he doesn’t know? He’s a lieutenant of the Tokyo PD, he didn’t get there by being devilishly handsome.

Mizuiro’s still talking, unaware that Ichigo totally knows what “discussing baseball” is an analogy for. Mizuiro doesn’t even like baseball. “After a rather heated discussion – ” 

Ichigo’s sure it was, “I’m sorry, is this going somewhere?”

Another thing his friends jokes about is his apparent lack of patience when he’s tired.

“Yes, sorry. Godzilla vs. King Kong.” Mizuiro says, business voice turned on. And Ichigo wonders what he’s done to deserve this. 

“I’m hanging up.” He does as promised and throws his phone onto the other mattress.

He nuzzles back under the blanket when it’s starts pounding on his door. The cat looks conspiratorially at him, as if she too wants to commit murder. He could probably do it and get away with it and she looks like she knows it too. 

He plots details while he shuffles out of bed and opens the door before who’s outside knocks it down or wakes the neighbors or God forbid leaves.

Mizuiro and Keigo are outside, looking somewhat frantic and honestly ruffled as if they rolled out of bed, into their clothes and then headed here. Knowing them it wouldn’t be too farfetched.

“This is important, asshole!” Mizuiro says and shoves him back in.

Keigo closes the door and Ichigo wonders when the roles reversed so that Keigo is the more sensible in that relationship.

“Mizuiro, it’s,” he looks at his oven, “2.43 in the morning. What’s so important it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?”

“I tried telling you over the phone, but then you hung up on me,” he doesn’t even have the curtesy to look sorry about calling him. “Note to later, never do that again! Someone could’ve been hurt or worse.”

Ichigo sighs and the cat saunters out of the bedroom and jumps up to the couch and from that over to Ichigo’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Keigo says as he pours instant coffee into a mug and turns on the kettle. 

Ichigo shrugs, “Kumi.”

Mizuiro huffs, “What I tried to say over the phone, we figured it out.”

“Figured it out?”

“The riddle, dumbfuck. Oh my God, Asano, when’s the coffee done?”

Keigo frowns, “Why’re you Asano-ing me? I didn’t do anything.”

He hands the cup to Ichigo who takes it, knowing sleeping is a thing of the past as of this instance.

“The riddle, Ichigo,” Mizuiro says when he’s had the first mouthful.

Ichigo quirks up, “You solved it?”

Mizuiro rolls his eyes, not about to point out he’s been saying this for the past five minutes. 

“Godzilla vs. King Kong?” Ichigo questions and looks to Keigo.

“It was released in 1962. Remember how the riddle said towering, a colossus? Well, both Godzilla and King Kong fit that bill and they had a penchant for destroying towers, no?”

“Best movie,” Keigo mumbles in the background.

“Anyways, a month back there was a fire in Marunouchi, you remember? There was wild panic since people believed their savings had been lost, but since the bank only carried electronic currency, no one lost anything. No money burning,” Mizuiro explains and looks expectant at Ichigo.

“I’ll get dressed,” he hands Mizuiro the cat and points to the window, “Let her out, will you?”

 

It’s not five minutes before they’re in Mizuiro’s car. Keigo’s been resigned to the backseat since they’re dropping him off at Saginomiya so he can take the metro back to Keishicho. Ichigo and Mizuiro have called Rukia, Chad and Ishida. Since Rukia and Chad have cars of their own and Ishida didn’t pick up, they’re headed to his place.

Mizuiro seems to know exactly where that is, so Ichigo doesn’t bother him with asking. Instead he asks how they figured out Godzilla was involved.

“As I tried telling you before you hung up on me, we decided to watch a movie and Keigo happened to have it. He’s been begging me for months to see it.”

Ichigo looks at him, “Don’t you like Godzilla?”

“I like Godzilla fine, I just like torturing Keigo more.” His smile is devilish to say the least.

The moon’s out tonight, which is new. There’s only tendrils of clouds drizzled across the sky, like they were afraid more would ruin the picture. Tokyo’s pulsing with life, sharp colors and even sharper reflections in the wet asphalt and glass. It’s Friday and Ichigo’s not even surprised he didn’t know.

“We’re here,” Mizuiro announces and parks the car. Ichigo gets out and slams the door shut. Mizuiro’s car is one of many kinks and quirks, the passenger side doesn’t close properly unless violently persuaded.

They walk up the stairs, trying not to make too much noise as every single one is thrown back at them. It’s somewhat shadier than what Ichigo would’ve thought Ishida would allow himself to live in. The paint on the railing is flaking off and the raw concrete is almost yawning under them. They reach a door that reads Ishida Uryuu. He knocks.

Mizuiro pulls out his phone and calls him. Something starts ringing inside, they look to each other, and Ichigo knocks again. It’s another two rings before it stops and Ishida opens the door with messy hair and a loose, threadbare shirt. Ichigo can’t tell if he’s wearing pants and that mental image might be the death of him. “Shame,” he hears Ishida breathe in his mind.

“What?” Ishida’s concise if anything.

“You’re un-benched, how fast can you get dressed?” Ichigo asks and he sees Ishida’s eyes widen ever so slightly. 

“Give me two minutes,” he replies and closes the door. 

“Un-benched?” Mizuiro looks at him.

“Long story,” Ichigo sighs.

Mizurio nods, “I know, Keigo told me.”

Ichigo doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Mizuiro flicks his phone out, “Chad and Rukia are there now and they’re casing the building before calling in CSU.”

Ichigo nods, “Good call.”

“So,” Mizuiro drags it and Ichigo just knows his next sentence isn’t going to be pleasant.

“One word and I’ll bench you too,” Ichigo says instead and in that moment Ishida opens the door. His coat is slung over his arm and he’s wearing a dark, turtleneck sweater that looks more expensive than Ichigo’s entire outfit. He’s wearing jeans of all things, but Ichigo has a strong suspicion they’re also designed by as famous hand, considering what they do to Ishida’s legs and what lies a little north from them. 

“Is that Michael Kors?” Mizuiro asks and points to Ishida’s sweater while he locks his front door. He tests the handle and turns then to Mizuiro and answers, “Fall collection.”

“Nice,” he replies and Ishida simply nods. 

They begin down the stairs and while the two of them are discussing collections of various seasons and designers, Ichigo’s trying to keep his mind out of the gutter. The sweater is almost disgustingly well-tailored to Ishida’s shoulders and waist. It makes it a hundred times easier to picture him naked and a hundred times harder not to do exactly that.

Ishida gets in the back and buckles up, “So what’s happening?”

“Godzilla vs. King Kong,” Ichigo says.

There’s a beat, “The original or the remake?”

“Original.”

“1962?” he inquires and Ichigo catches his eyes in the rearview mirror and it’s like tension becomes physical then and there. He’s not sure if either Ishida or Mizuiro feel it, but to Ichigo, it’s like his fingertips are sparking. 

Ichigo looks away, “We’re headed to Marunouchi.” 

“Towering, a colossus. No money burning,” Ishida frowns and repeats, “The bank fire?”

Ichigo feels a surge go through him. It’s like lightning and it makes him find Ishida’s eyes again and once again, it’s almost hard to breathe. He’s so, so very screwed.

 

The plastic bandaging the building’s upper floors is stark against the grainy sky. Even here in this, a district of giants, it’s a colossus. The wind’s picking up and a gust runs through the streets, picking up discarded wrappers and paper. Even though the building has been marred, projectors still points directly at its crown making the plastic look more like a halo. Ichigo shudders.

Chad and Rukia are waiting for them outside the building. Their edges are rough in the coarse night, both standing hunched and weary.

“We waited for you,” Chad states as they draw closer. Ichigo recognizes this as the assurance it’s meant to be. He looks up, his hands safe in his pockets.

“You sure about this, Kojima?” Rukia grumbles.

Mizuiro just nods as she flicks on her torchlight and opens the door inside. The building’s been cordoned off for more than a month now, the reconstruction taking longer than initially planned. The workers had gone on strike and while the banking company themselves were rather eager to reclaim their throne-room; the unions weren’t giving them one inch.

The cones of light spread the darkness, revealing a maw of black where the elevator was supposed to have been, instead they lead them towards the staircase. They ascend slowly, none of them speaking due to the lateness of the hour. Ishida keeps looking over his shoulders as if he was afraid of getting busted for breaking and entering. Ichigo knows the feeling – much of his best police work had been done while breaking at least one rule. 

“What floor?” Chad asks.

Mizuiro shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

Rukia sighs and Ichigo knows that feeling as well.

“We spread out,” Ichigo says then, “I’ll take the three top floors. Rukia, you take the next three, Chad, three next, Mizuiro and then Ishida.”

“You wanna let probie go on his own?” Rukia questions, trying not to sound patronizing. Ishida doesn’t seem to either have heard or care.

Ichigo digs down in his pocket and finds his taser. He throws it to Ishida who catches it with his left hand and pockets it. “If anything should happen, use that and then call for one of us.”

“I thought, you said my safety was your responsibility,” Ishida retorts and meets his eyes, a hint of a smirk there.

Ichigo sighs, “Which is why you have the bottom floors and a taser.” 

“Yes, this will definitely save me if I run into a psychopath with a handgun and a bloody drill.”

Ichigo chooses not to answer and lets Ishida have this one small victory. He points him to the door. Ishida rolls his eyes and finds a flashlight. 

“Taser,” Ichigo orders and Ishida grabs it demonstratively. He disappears into the absolute shadows, soon completely swallowed within.

“Come on,” he leads them upwards. 

One by one they’re send into the darkest floors until it’s only he and Rukia. They don’t speak. He knows he’s in hot water and so does she and she has the good grace of not mentioning that. She nods to him when she too drops away from staircase.

“I wanna say good luck, but …” she shakes her head.

“Yeah,” he answers and watches the door close behind her.

Ichigo walks the last length alone. It’s eerily quiet, it’s like he can hear the steel wire whisper and the concrete sigh under and around him. There’s something in the air and he knows none of the others will find the victim. He hopes they’re in time – God, he really hopes they’re in time.

He opens the door to the top floor and is immediately rushed by the wind. The white plastic hanging between from the ceiling is billowing, running like ghosts, looking like ghouls. The very building seems to whine as he steps further out. He looks around and is astonished at what he sees.

Tokyo herself is at his feet. She looks to be shining with a thousand gemstones, silver and gold laced in between each other. It’s a marvel, seeing her this close and yet so far away. The towers surrounding him look like servants to their king, kneeling strong and proud. Ichigo takes a deep breath and lets the wind run through his bones. 

He feels awake then, as if all he needed was a cool breath of air.

That’s when he looks to his left; that’s when he sees him.

A silhouette is swaying there, toeing the edge of the building. The plastic blowing around him, screaming for help. They’re splattered with blood, though it’s hard to see as they whip in time with the wind.

“Fuck,” he breathes and hurries to him. 

While the white plastic is furiously throwing itself everywhere they can, the man is cautiously calm. Ichigo rips the plastic aside and immediately looks away. His feet aren’t touching the ground and his eyes have gone milky and lax.

He finds his phone and calls Mizuiro.

“You found him?” he greets.

Ichigo nods, “Yeah, get CSU here.”

There’s a pause, and then:

“I’m sorry,” Mizuiro says. Ichigo swallows and hangs up. He keeps watching the man, slowly spinning around himself, the plastic a flurry and he, an unhurried waltz.

 

Ichigo watches CSU file out onto the floor. Their blue jumpsuits make them easily distinguishable and Ichigo can’t lose the feeling that he’s in a surrealist film. Rukia taps him on the back and he turns.

On the floor’s a dark blue sports bag, Adidas, worn and dirty. He pulls on his gloves and opens it. There’s a bottle of energy-drink, a dirty change of clothes, a hentai, a pair of tennis-shoes. It’s one of those things with the job he never gets used to, rummaging through another person’s life like this.

Ichigo sees Ishida appear in the doorway and signals him closer.

“Did you talk to him?” Ishida asks and Ichigo shakes his head.

“He was dead long before we got here.”

Rukia looks at Ishida, “Inoue says lividity puts it around two days ago.”

They find his wallet and while Rukia keeps combing through the bag, Ichigo finds his driver’s license. 

“Takenaka Ken. 28 years old, Suginami,” Ichigo reads and flips it over. He bags it and hands it to a tech walking by.

“Takenaka Ken?” Ishida repeats.

“Mean something?”

Ishida frowns, “I don’t remember, but I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

Chad comes over and gestures for Ishida to follow him. Ichigo doesn’t envy him. When Chad pokes you on the shoulder, it’s usually to show you something you wouldn’t believe with you own eyes. At least, that’s why he does it to Ichigo. Since Ishida’s new, it’s probably a quick walk-through about what you do and don’t do when you’re standing over a body. 

It’s a bad one. Takenaka’s teeth were left in, thank God, his fingers are untouched, Inoue says the hole in his chest was made post-mortem. His arms, however, have been twisted and broken, his knee caps crushed, his collarbone shattered and his ribs fractured. He died a slow, excruciating death, Inoue had told them regretfully.

“I don’t get this guy,” Rukia says as she flips through the manga, “what’s it for? Having one die painfully, then a mercy-kill and then another brutal slaying? To what end? What’s the point?”

Ichigo shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

His eyes are on Ishida still. He wouldn’t want Takenaka to be the first body he saw. A body like that makes you lose a little of the faith you have in humanity. 

Chad removes the plastic they’d used to shield the body from interns and younger CSU’s. 

Ishida doesn’t even blink as Chad explains how Takenaka suffered and died. 

Ichigo frowns and narrows his eyes slightly. He’s never seen anyone deal with a mutilated body that well. He’d had to ask Rukia to pull over so he could puke after his first. Even Inoue, who was as well-versed in death and the tongues it spoke in, had blanched when she’d laid eyes on Takenaka. 

He shakes his head.

“What?” Rukia looks up from the manga.

“What did Ishida do before he joined the Academy?”

“I think he did prelaw? I don’t know, something like that. Why?”

Ichigo doesn’t take his eyes from Ishida as he keeps looking entirely unbothered by the carnage at his feet. “He hasn’t even blinked.”

Rukia looks over her shoulder, “He could be better at compartmentalizing than the rest of us.”

Something in his gut, and what a police cliché that is, tells him this isn’t the first time Ishida’s stood over a cold body. 

He pulls out the shirt and holds it out. It’s dirty, black smudges of grease on it, spots of discoloring. Ichigo turns it over. “He was a mechanic,” Rukia interrupts and hands him the manga. Ichigo opens and finds that Takenaka has rewritten some of the dialogue and drawn in a crude uniform over the male’s shirt and tie. He’s even gone so far as to color his hands black and drawing handprints on the rather busty female lead.

Ichigo throws the shirt back into his bag, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will. You’ll figure it out,” she mutters as she fishes out a tape from his pants. She immediately finds a bag and drops it in there.

“Chad!” she calls and gets up. She joins Chad with Akon and hands him the tape.

Ichigo gets up as well and stretches. He sees Ishida to his right, in the middle of a swirling storm of plastic. It looks as if he’s the one tempesting the winds and ordering them to swirl around him. Ichigo shakes his head and in the light of cynicism and regret, it looks like Ishida’s the one light in the flurry of trash. He goes to him.

“What’re you thinking?” he opens and comes to stand next to Ishida. His hands are in his pockets and he probably looks a lot calmer than he is. It’s like he can feel the blood in his fingertips.

“How did they get the body up here without anybody seeing? Sado-kun said, he was killed elsewhere. How do you get a body to the 80th floor without any witnesses unless you have connections?”

“And what do think?” 

The other’s frowning, “The Yakuza, but I don’t know of any kumicho dumb enough to challenge the NPA instead of sticking to the shadows – “ 

Ichigo shakes his head, “The Yakuza doesn’t kill mechanics and parking guards.”

Ishida stays quiet, but Ichigo can tell he disagrees. They stand next to each other keeping an eye on Tokyo and her children.

“I think I saw his name in the missing persons reports Kojima gave me.”

Ichigo looks to him, “At least that means he didn’t die unloved.”

Ishida doesn’t answer, at least, he doesn’t say anything loud enough for Ichigo to catch. The wind might have whisked the words away on his behest.

“Is there a tape?” he asks then and Ichigo nods.

They’re both quiet while the Tokyo night screams around them, though it’s almost impossible to hear this high up. It feels like they’re standing at the peak of the world. He turns and catches Ishida watching him. The other quickly turns his head away again and looks the opposite direction.

It’s been a long time since Ichigo has been getting fluttering wings in his stomach because someone particular was standing next to him. It feels like an eternity, really, but here at the top of the known world, it’s a blink of an eye. It feels like yesterday Kumiko left him, not even bothering to call and tell him she’d moved. He’d come home to an empty apartment, cold and grey and found himself the proud owner of a cat he didn’t remember letting inside in the first place. 

And here, at the top of the world, he doesn’t feel so alone.

 

Ishida calls him to the AV-room the next day. 

No one bothered going home. They’ve been taking turns sleeping an hour in the breakroom, but otherwise they never left work. The coffee machine has been slaving most of the morning, pumping out blacker and blacker coffee to keep them awake and ready. 

Ichigo was reading through Takenaka Ken’s file when Ishida had called. Takenaka had not only been missing, but he was no stranger to the police department. He ran with a pretty useless group of thugs when he’d been younger and they’d all been busted for possession. Takenaka had turned his life around in his mid-twenties, when he fathered a baby girl. She was born handicapped and had required a lot of extra attention. His wife had quit her job and Takenaka had pulled double duty. Ichigo sighs for the mother and hopes they stand a chance now.

Ichigo rubs his eyes and picks up the phone. 

“I found something,” Ishida says and hangs up then. There’s a lot to be said about Ishida, being indirect is not one of them. 

Ichigo nods for Rukia to follow him. She falls into step with him naturally.

“Prelaw.” 

Ichigo cracks his neck, “Hm?”

“Ishida. He did prelaw and while attending the Academy, he finished a criminology bachelor on the side.”

His forehead grows a frown because neither of those would get Ishida standing over mutilated bodies. 

“I told you he was an asset,” Rukia shoots in when he doesn’t answer her. Ichigo only grunts. 

“Guess who handles security at our crime scene,” she challenges him then.

Ichigo wakes, “Blue Cross?”

“Bingo.”

“Coincidence or?”

“So far nothing implicates them. Keigo ran diagnostics on the drives and only found evidence to support the story we heard from them. Mizuiro’s on the phone with them now, trying to get these tapes released as well.”

They reach the door and Ichigo opens and holds it for Rukia. Ishida’s leaning impossibly close to the screen, his skin glowing with reflective light. Ichigo swallows and for his troubles, Rukia smirks at him. He and Ishida seem to be having a sort of truce. Maybe it’s because they’re both tired that they have no interest in antagonizing each other.

“You found something?” Ichigo asks after Ishida fails to acknowledge them after two minutes. Ishida nods and runs his hands over his face, “I think so.”

“Show us,” Rukia orders calmly and sits down in the other chair. 

Ishida rapid-fires commands into the keyboard and pulls a sequence from the desktop. He inserts it into the media-player and cordons off a section of the screen. 

“Okay, watch as I play this.”

He does. Three figures appears in the corner. The time stamp shifts and they’re back another three times. Ishida blows up the corner and clicks on a preset-button. The entire picture is suddenly a good deal sharper and blacker. He presses play again.

The three figures stays within the confinements of the corner. They’re dressed for paperwork as opposed to physical labor.

“Three unidentifiable men in suits?” Rukia questions, sounding unimpressed. 

Ishida shakes his head, “Seven.”

“Seven?”

“None of them are the same height or build. One of them is there every time, the others are switched out.”

“They’re casing the docks,” Ichigo leans forward, bending over Ishida’s chair. 

“Ichigo,” Rukia says quietly, “There’re seven.”

He shakes his head and stands. “It takes resources to play this game, I would’ve been more surprised if it was the work of one man.”

“Good job,” he tells Ishida and sees the other nod once, and then looks back to the screen. 

“I don’t like this,” Rukia says under her breath when they walk back to the bullpen. Ishida’s behind them. Since he’d been un-benched and the tapes had run out, there wasn’t any point in keeping him in the AV-room. And as Rukia had pointed out, he was an asset to be used.

“What’s there to like?” Ichigo questions. 

“I don’t understand how this big of a group has stayed under our radar this long,” she continues without paying him any mind. “It feels big, Ichigo.”

He nods. It feels like the case that finalized their friendship and that had been a case Ichigo had never seen the likes of before. Rukia’s name and reputation had been dragged a month or two after Ichigo first started. It had taken them three months of rogue investigation to clear her name. They’d never found out who’d been responsible, all they knew was that it had been an inside-job and there was little other clues to follow. Back then, the Organized Crime had sat idly by, almost investigating them in return, making a few arrests even. Chad and Inoue had been jailed as the witch-hunt for Rukia continued. She’d lived with him back then, hiding out

That case had seemed insurmountable because they’d been fighting the system, as Keigo put it. 

They reach the bullpen and head for Ichigo’s desk. Chad’s waiting for them there, he holds up the tape and they speed up. “That was fast,” Ichigo comments as they approach.

Chad nods, “We seem to be getting priority.”

“That’s a first.”

Chad puts in the tape and clicks play. Nothing happens. White noise streams through the speakers and into the empty room. The only noise is fans that are still fighting a losing battle, trying to cool the station down. Ichigo feel a beads run from his temple.

Suddenly, someone cries. It’s loud and desperate. It screeches like nails on chalkboards and most of them flinch. It sounds like a woman and she’s pleading, begging them to stop, to let her go. She makes promises, swears on her life and then suddenly she quiets.

“Read this,” someone asks her. He sounds intrigued and smooth, like running a hand over paper, or glass. 

There’s a hiccup and then, “W-well done. I trust you’re having f-f-f-fun.” She’s crying, though fighting not to. 

“In every game sa-sacrifices have to be m-made,” she sobs, “and Takenaka-san was a n-n-necessary loss you had to suffer, so you’d underst-understand.”

Ichigo swallows and watches Rukia cover her mouth. Chad’s frowning and Ishida, Ishida’s typing up the transcript, nonplussed it seems, at the naked suffering that oozes from the tape. He looks up and meets Ichigo’s eyes, blinks once and then returns to typing. What Ichigo sees though, is the very essence of the tape reflected in his eyes. Blue suddenly seems fitting for eyes so sad.

“C’est la vie, as the-they say, but the show must go on,” she cries. “I don’t understand –“

“Your job’s to read, not understand,” the voice is cold now, like he’s growing impatient with her. 

“Okay! Okay!” she sounds petrified, “A slave to duty, like Frankenstein and Jekyll, an old friend returns.”

There’s scrambling and then, “Help! You have to help me! My name’s Yamada! Yamada A–“

The tape end there. 

No one says anything. The girl, Yamada, had been terrified. It’s like Ichigo can feel that terror seeping into his own skin. He knows her prospects are dire, he’s seen what these people do.

“If we’re lucky, this will be a mercy kill,” Rukia tries, “He might establish a pattern.”

Ichigo shakes his head. Something tells him the pattern won’t be in the murders. 

“I’ll print the transcript,” Ishida sighs and gets up.

 

“When I find this guy, I’ll wring his neck.”

“Get in line,” Rukia hisses and Inoue nods. She hands him her report. There’s nothing in it they didn’t already know. Ichigo asks her to stay and she accepts, dumping down in Chad’s chair and breathing out. Ichigo can only agree, he’s starting to feel the tension in his shoulders and lower back.

“Get Mizuiro here,” he rubs his eyes and lays his arms over them, shutting out the light. The heat in the bullpen is almost oppressive. The air’s stuffy and Ichigo wonders how any of them can breathe. He loosens the knot of his tie and breathes deep. 

A slave to duty. Yeah, there’s not an inch of his body that isn’t about to collapse from exhaustion and he’s close to falling asleep then and there. It feels like there’s grains of sand stuck in his eyes and his head feels heavy. It’s 7:30pm and the sun’s about to set over their city.

Keigo appears from the breakroom, Mizuiro on his heels. The other is on the phone, sounding like he’s out for blood. Keigo, to his credit, seems completely unfazed by this. Between them, he’s also known Mizuiro the longest.

“What’s up?” Keigo greets them and for once he doesn’t sound like he’s about to tirade about something mundane and utterly ridiculous. Keigo is a self-described anarchist with eclectic tastes. The first conversation Ichigo had ever had with him, Keigo had been telling him how he would overthrow the current government and have the youth of Japan revolutionize the country. “We’re governed by people who’s next life-achievement is pension! We can’t have someone in power who isn’t concerned with the rest of us. Laws are written by old men from old times and they don’t apply to this generation or this world for this matter. I’ve made a plan, I’m going to show them how reliant our system is on this generation!”

He’d then proceeded to hack into the government database and wreak havoc within. 

Now he sounds as serious as when he talks about student loans, rent and the economic and environmental burden they inherited from their parents and their lot. Which is to say deadly serious. 

“What do you make of this?” Ichigo responds and nods to the transcript.

Keigo reads and frowns. “That we’ve got ourselves on sick dude on our hands.”

“No kidding,” Chad says, and it’s really a testament to how tired they all are when Chad’s the one to make gripes like these. No one bothers to feel offended by it. Often they seem to forget that Keigo works the same hours as they do, if not worse. He works other cases simultaneously. Mizuiro sometimes jokes that if they didn’t eat lunch together they wouldn’t see each other and Ichigo doesn’t think he’s wrong.

Mizuiro smacks his phone shut. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. Keigo strokes his back, soothing.

“I’m quite busy, the story about the third victim broke the press so the director has me doing damage-control while –“

“What do you think?” Ichigo questions and gestures towards the board. Mizuiro stares at it. Between the six of them he’s the best-read. If there was a book published, Mizuiro has either heard of it or already read it. Ichigo had picked him up once and had had to stay out in the hall because he’d ordered a new bookcase and all the book had been relegated to the floor instead. It had been chaos. Keigo had nodded solemnly when Ichigo had told them about this the following day.

Mizuiro hums, “Well, both juggle the dichotomy between good and evil, who’s really evil in the first place, the creator or the created. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein and it’s widely regarded as the first science fiction novel, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Jekyll and Hyde for a serialized magazine, I think. They look similar, but ... Frankenstein’s from like 1810-1820 and Jekyll and Hyde’s from 188-something.” 

“They’re both about wicked cool monsters,” Keigo deadpans and Mizuiro nods.

“So somewhere with monsters?” Rukia asks and looks positively dejected.

“No.” Ishida’s twirling a pen between his fingers like a thug would a butterfly knife. It looks lethal to say the least. “It’s a common misconception, but Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster.”

“Your point?” Ichigo frowns.

“My point is there’s another line.” Ishida stills the pen and taps it.

Mizuiro narrows his eyes, thinking and Keigo’s mouth opens, the same way when he’s about to change his mind. Rukia sits up a straighter and adjusts the backrest while Chad keep his eyes firmly on Ishida. And Ichigo waits.

Then Mizuiro says, “Oh.”

“I think the old friend that’s mentioned might be St. Luke. Both Frankenstein and Jekyll were scientists, St Luke’s the patron of students. Is it a far stretch to say the University of Tokyo?”

Ichigo stands immediately and says to Keigo, “Look up the enrolled students and see if there’s a Yamada A. who hasn’t shown up for class.”

He turns to Mizuiro, “You look through missing persons. Hopefully, we’ll be in time.”

“You three, you’re coming with me.” He points to Rukia, Chad and Ishida and they’re all in their coats before he’s lowered his arm.

It seems there’s a silent consensus that Rukia drives.

 

“There was nothing we could’ve done,” Ishida says to him, quietly, as the CSU drives her away. Ichigo is getting really tired of hearing this. 

“We’re getting too comfortable with that phrase,” Ichigo sneers and runs a hand through his hair.

Ishida doesn’t say anything, only sits down next to him.

The blue lights are flooding the scene, making Ishida’s eyes seem almost colorless in their glare. Ichigo keeps looking at him until he can’t stand it anymore and then turns away. He’s a masochist, it seems. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

Ichigo shakes his head and breathes deep. There’s a click from the lighter and a soft orange glow that soaks his hair in color. The smoke curling from Ishida’s mouth and fingers, it smells terrible in the clear air. He doesn’t mind, really. Chad smokes at least a pack a week. Ichigo wonders if that’s why the two of them are so amicable.

“Is this regular shop hours?” Ishida asks then and Ichigo snorts despite himself. Ishida doesn’t look affronted. If anything, he looks amused. 

“You get used to it.” He wants it to be a lie, but somewhere along the way it’s become his second home and second family, really. He can tell Ishida’s trying to distract him and he’s honestly too tired to be bothered.

Ishida draws in a breath of smoke, “I hope not.”

“That’s homicide for you. People rarely consider our work-schedule when they kill each other.”

“Still beats Organized Crime.”

“You were offered internship there?” Ichigo asks, genuinely intrigued. He knows he should worry about the merry band of psychopaths on the loose, but here in these lost minutes before moonrise, he sits back. He realizes this is his first real conversation with Ishida. It’s odd how easy it is, talking to him like this. 

He rolls his eyes, “I asked not to.”

“Why?”

“They’re useless,” Ishida stares off into the distance.

Ichigo smirks, “Is this that tragic backstory you insisted on not having?”

“Fuck you,” Ishida huffs, “It’s common knowledge.”

Well, Ichigo thinks, he’s not wrong. Organized Crime is such a big organ by now, it’s lost its mobility and its nerve.

Ichigo tips his head back. There’s nothing beyond the sky but light pollution. The last time he saw stars was when he’d taken a night bus from Tokyo to Kyoto to attend a seminar there. It had been painfully dark, but equally beautiful. He’d felt peaceful there, sitting in a bus without being able to see anything but outer space. He could pretend he existed elsewhere for the duration of the ride and maybe that was why it had been so tranquil. His life seemed to be anything but, because three weeks later, Rukia was hiding out in his apartment and Chad had been jailed for criticizing the investigation.

“There’s usually a lot more paperwork,” he says then. “To answer your first question.”

Ishida flicks his cigarette away, “I read your reports, when I typed them.”

Ichigo sits back up and meets Ishida’s eyes. “And?”

“You’re a great deal less self-important than I thought you would be,” Ishida replies and then his eyes latches on to the ambulance that’s backing away. He stays on it until it’s lost in traffic and then turns back to Ichigo.

“Do you think we’re going to catch up to him?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Ichigo sees Chad out the corner of his eye, making his way over to them.

“We’re playing by his rules and they seem to ensure his constant superiority. We never know anything before he wants us to. Doesn’t that annoy you?”

“It annoys me more that he thinks our victims are his playthings, honestly,” he answers, gets up and walks over to Chad. 

The other looks over Ichigo’s shoulder to Ishida.

“Bad time?”

“No,” Ichigo shakes his head and adjusts his coat, “We have murder to solve.”

 

They’re all scattered around the board, no one saying a word. There’s a general feeling of despondency seeping through the humid air. Ichigo knows they feel the same way he does. He’s tired, completely exhausted, his head feeling like mush, and Yamada Aeko shouldn’t have died.

Her face is peaceful in death, serene almost, but Ichigo suspects that she would be after the torture she underwent before she was killed. 

Her nails had been torn from her fingers, she’d been beaten within an inch of her life and had suffered from severe dehydration. And then of course, she had a hole in her chest cavity. Inoue said, it looked to be hand carved anti-mortem and they’d all turned their heads away. It would’ve been slow and very painful. Considering all that she went through, it’s safe to assume that the tape was recorded long before the real torture began.

“Here,” a man says as he hands over a manila folder. “I had my guys push this.”

Ichigo nods and thanks him, picks the folder from his hands and opens to read. Rukia leans over and read over his shoulder. The others remain patient. 

“There were traces of nitroamine, dioctyle sebacate, polyisobutylene, botox and motor oil in the lab, on her clothes and her fingers. They also found talcum residue and trace amounts of hydrochloric acid,” Ichigo summarizes. Rukia takes the folder from him and writes it onto the board. Mizuiro had to move another one in here to fit riddles, evidence, witness statements, timelines and victim profiles on it. 

Ishida is reading the missing person’s file on Yamada Aeko. She had been a student, 21 years old, in tremendous debt because her parents had cut her off mid-term and left her to pay her own bills. Apparently, they’d found out she was gay and had acted accordingly. Even bone-tired, Ichigo had found energy to be angry about that. Yamada had worked two jobs and her academic career had suffered for it. She’d then decided to pick up a student loan instead of failing her degree.

“What does a parking-guard, a retired city-planner, a mechanic and a chemistry student have in common?” Rukia asks them as she turns. “What connects them? There has to be something. An offender like this, the one who planned everything, someone this meticulous and detail-oriented wouldn’t go about picking random people off the streets.”

“Maybe it’s revenge?” Mizuiro suggests. The dark circles under his eyes seem etched into his skin and Ichigo envies him a little, because he’ll have Keigo to run a hand up his back and kiss the top of his head. He’ll be just as tired, but he won’t care about that until Mizuiro’s asleep.

“Or perhaps it’s related to the Yakuza,” Ishida says unrepentant and looks up.

Rukia shakes her head, “Organized Crime says no.”

“Seems to be the common thread.”

Ichigo says, “We’ll investigate that angle as well,” before Rukia can retort. They’re all tired and it’s at times like this that most mistakes and most animosities are made and sown. 

“Keigo, how’s the surveillance coming along?” Chad asks and Ichigo leans back against his desk. He can feel Ishida watching him. It makes his heart pronounce its beats sloppily and has his cheeks heat. Everybody’s looking at Keigo though, who’s explaining the surveillance to them.

“Our friends at Blue Cross, ever adamant to see a warrant, has finally relinquished the tapes,” he tells them. “It looks like the computer geeks got at least a smidgen of code from the hacker.”

“They what?” Rukia perks up and looks at him.

Keigo nods, “Don’t get your hopes up though. It’s like a few lines. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow.”

Ichigo sighs. Finally they get something that isn’t an impossible riddle. Speaking of, the latest could very well be that.

“All the world’s a stage. A restriction of the mind. A coffin of glass,” it read. This time, there’s been no extra talking. It had been a dead voice reciting the riddle. She’d sounded drugged and while it had been marginally better than hearing someone scream in terror, it hadn’t exactly brightened their day. Also because none of them have any clue what to do with this. Shakespeare, Ichigo knew, the rest of it was a mystery.

Rukia yawns.

Silence falls on them again and Ichigo shakes his head, “It’s late. We’ve been at this for 21 hours straight. Go home.”

It’s a minute before they realize what he’s said. They scramble to their feet and pull on coats and gloves. Mizuiro’s about to take out his phone, but Keigo takes it from him and tells him, it can wait until tomorrow, and drags him towards the elevator. Nobody says anything but a mumbled goodnight and rub their eyes.

Inoue’s speaking with Ishida and gives him a summer smile before she turns to leave. She smiles at Ichigo as well, but it feels more like October than it does July. 

Ishida stands then and pulls on his coat, “You taking the subway?”

Ichigo nods, “You don’t, though.”

“I do when I’m picked up in the middle of the night and don’t have my bike with me,” he stretches his arms and looks to Ichigo.

It’s a wordless agreement then. They take the elevator down and walk to the subway station. The trains are irregular this time of night and they keep each other company. Ishida buys a pack of regular Pockies to snack on while they wait. It’s mostly quiet observations and statements that pass between them. Across from them, there’s a woman plastered onto the walls, advertising for bras.

Ishida offers him a Pocky. Ichigo eats it with nostalgia tugging at his lips and takes one more when Ishida holds out the box. 

“You seem tense,” Ishida remarks as he eats a Pocky and licks his lips.

“A girl’s been mutilated on my watch.”

“Fair,” Ishida replies and hands him the package. His train’s approaching, but he doesn’t feel like leaving. He can barely stand yet he takes another Pocky and ignores the train. Ishida gives him an assessing look.

“Are you flirting with me, Kurosaki?” he asks then, quietly. He’s looking at the tracks, a candy-wrapper swirling in the air as the train flies by.

He takes a leap of faith then, “Is it working?” 

Ichigo knows this is a terrible idea, really. Ishida might be the most attractive thing he’s come across since God knows when, but he’s also somewhat of a dick. At least, that’s what it seems he wants everybody to think. Ichigo’s seen him reading the casefiles like he personally knew every person in them, saw him crouch at Sato’s bed and hold his hand through death. Ishida cares. He just doesn’t want anybody to know. Ichigo doubts Ishida knows himself, honestly.

He looks to the screen, his train’s due in half a minute. The headlights are blinding in the tunnel darkness, much like Ishida seems to be. It stops. He gets in and turns around. He meets Ishida’s eye. The train signals their doors closed and Ichigo swallows. His stomach plunges, then surges. 

Ishida jumps onto the train, in the last possible second. He’s slightly breathless.

“You going my way?”

“It would seem so,” Ishida says and loosens his scarf a little.

“This is against regulations,” Ichigo tells him. 

Ishida sits down and looks up at him, “You could get fired.”

“You’d get fired, I’d get suspended.” Ichigo grabs the pole next to Ishida’s seat and returns his gaze.

Ishida takes the fabric of his pants between his fingers and tugs gently. Ichigo can practically feel his blood rushing and Ishida has only grabbed hold of his pants.

“It’s irresponsible of us,” he agrees.

Ichigo answers, mock-serious, “Very.”

Ishida smiles then and whatever doubts Ichigo had, they evaporate lie dew before a merciful sun.

 

Ichigo wakes up, warm and relaxed. His arm’s around a waist and he can feel every breath being taken. He opens his eyes and looks into Ishida’s sleeping face and his heart stutters, because he may have thought it was deliria brought on by exhaustion. But here he is, in the same bed as a sleeping Ishida and feeling the most peaceful he’s felt in a while.

13 months, actually. It’s sad when you think about it.

They’d barely made it through the door, slamming it with anticipation it seemed. Ishida had latched on to his neck and suddenly they were making out and trading secrets. Ichigo remembers running his hands over Ishida’s sides and landing on his hips, holding on tight as Ishida licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. Ichigo had sighed and Ishida had chuckled.

“Long time?” he’d asked, sounding thrilled as opposed to disappointed.

Ichigo’s chased his mouth, “Cases always seem to be coming in the moment before I pull.”

“That’s terrible,” Ishida lets himself be shut up them and gladly continues the conversation without the aid of words. 

The sex is mind-blowing. Of course, speaking from the point of view of the celibate, anything would be really. But Ishida had been considerate, willing and most importantly, imaginative.

Ishida stirs next to him and he removes his arm and stretches. He yawns and rubs his eyes.

“Morning,” he mumbles and Ichigo feels his heart melt and spasm. 

He is so incredibly fucked, both literally and figuratively, it’s not even funny.

“Hey,” he answers.

Ishida buries his head into the duvet and it’s horrible to describe a grown man as adorable, but Ichigo has no other words. He reappears and reaches over him and grabs his phone. His eyes widen when he sees the time. He swears and practically falls off the bed.

“That late?” Ichigo picks up the phone and sees it’s 6:07am which is pretty reasonable. 

“I have to go home, shower, change clothes and bike to the station. I’m going to be so late,” Ishida picks up his pants and quickly puts them on. Ichigo gets up as well and finds a shirt in his closet. Yesterday’s pants are not happening, so he finds another pair.

“We’re going to have to set an alarm next time,” Ishida continues and makes a pained noise when he looks over to see Ichigo buttoning his shirt.

Ichigo thinks very little else but, next time?

“I’d offer you breakfast or coffee, but –“

“It’s fine. Next time.”

And there it is again. He smiles and keeps smiling even after Ishida hurries out the door. The cat scratches on the window and he opens it. She jumps in and lands elegantly on the floor. Then she turns her head and gives him an almost smug look.

“What?”

She looks away and saunters over to the bed and lays down in the still-warm sheets.

 

Two weeks pass before they find her. She’s alone, rotting away and all Ichigo can think about, is how he spent her last hours sleeping with Ishida.


	3. Chapter 3

Keigo had called him a week ago, the day after he and Ishida’d slept together for the first time. Ishida had groaned and smacked Ichigo’s side, trying to get him to pick up the phone. It had worked, but he couldn’t be bothered to leave the bed, so there was that.

“Yeah?”

“Ichigo, I swear! This fucking asshole! He fucking set me up!” Keigo shouted. Ishida opened his eyes and looked at Ichigo.

“Keigo, what happened?”

“But you can bet your sweet ass I’m gonna find him! Even if I have to backhack his face to the Goddamn Jurassic, I will find him!”

Ichigo sat up and Ishida followed, still frowning and looking at him.

“He hacked me, Ichigo! That line of code was a fucking trap.” Keigo sounded exhausted then. Ichigo had never been the best to comfort his friends. He most often just ended up making it worse. Besides, chances were that Mizuiro was standing behind him, a careful hand on his neck.

“Have you told the others?”

“Mizuiro was here when the system fried. You’re the first I called.”

Ichigo nodded, “Alright. Do your thing and catch this bastard.”

“I will.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry, Ichigo.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ichigo said and meant it.

They’d gone back to sleep, Ishida falling back into it faster than Ichigo. He kissed Ishida’s shoulder, if only because he could, and closed his eyes. 

 

Ichigo’s sitting, watching Ishida lean back on the hindlegs of his chair. He’s reading. Les Misérables, by the looks of it. It’s a brick in its own right. He’d been reading it yesterday in Ichigo’s apartment as well. It had become a dangerous routine by now. They’d spend the night at Ichigo’s, Ishida would have a change of clothes and his bike with him and in the morning Ichigo would take the subway and Ishida would bike to work. After work Ishida would go home and meet Ichigo at his place an hour later or so later. 

He’d also been formally introduced to the cat, so there was that.

The system had developed on its own. They hadn’t talked about it and they hadn’t worried too much either. 

“This is a sorry sight,” Rukia says as she walks in and sits down in Chad’s chair. She looks between them. Her posture’s tense and Ichigo can tell she’s been tossing and turning most of the night. Ichigo would probably look a lot like her if he hadn’t started sleeping with Ishida. It was strange how much more relaxed he felt, even when they didn’t have sex, it was nice just having someone there.

“You’re not even trying to solve the riddle,” she argues and takes a sip of her coffee.

And now, Ichigo loves her, he loves her dearly, but that’s bullshit.

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” she inquires.

She knew it was. Ichigo can tell. She’s as annoyed with this case as they are. The one who seems the least perturbed is Ishida who simply turns a page in his book and reads on. In a way, it feels like he’s been a part of their team always, a steady presence. 

Rukia sees the movement and sighs, “What’re you reading?”

He lifts the cover and lets her read the title. 

“Any good?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m finished,” he answers easily, though it’s a clear dismissal. Ichigo smiles and licks his lips. Rukia smacks him across the arm.

“Anyway, have you heard from Keigo?” she asks.

Ichigo nods, “He’s still mucking about with his hardware.”

“What about missing persons, do we have any –“

“I wouldn’t be reading this if there was any left,” Ishida interrupts.

Ishida had become a lot more outspoken after the initial first week. He’d begun arguing with Ichigo every chance he got. The others were treated with a very precise amount of respect and Ichigo was treated like he was a lesson to be taught. If he hadn’t made valid point after valid point, Ichigo would’ve had to bench him again. But apparently, this was the way Ishida worked best, when he didn’t have to constantly watch his mouth. 

No one says anything. 

They’ve been over the riddle every possible way, it seems. They’ve tried every glass-house within the city-limits, any theatre, any stage, any library and they’ve searched every mortician they could find. They’ve done door to door in the wards he hadn’t struck in yet, hoping maybe they’d get lucky. They’d gone over the riddle again and again with no real progress besides driving each other mental. As the days went on their suggestions had gotten farther and farther out there and so Ichigo had put his foot down and stopped the guessing game. 

This had freed up Chad, Mizuiro, Rukia and Ishida to do other things. Chad’s currently out checking up on the botulin again, Mizuiro’s fending off the shitstorm the department had landed in and Rukia had been going back and forth between Homicide and Organized Crime. Pacing, more like it.

“All the world’s a stage, a restriction of the mind, a coffin of glass,” he mumbles and looks back to the board. Rukia tips her head back and studies the ceiling, “Nothing else?”

He’s about to shake his head when the phone rings. He reaches over and plucks it off, putting it to his ear.

“Kurosaki,” he greets.

“Ichigo, we just got a call from a renovation-company. They’ve been restoring the New National Theatre and a few minutes ago … you better come down here,” Chad says from the other end.

“Chad? You there now?” he sits up. Both Ishida and Rukia do the same. 

“I am. I just got here. It’s him.”

“We’re on our way,” he says and smacks the phone down. He signals for both of them to get ready and follow him. Since they don’t have Chad’s car, they’ll have to squeeze together in Rukia’s. 

They hurry down the stairs as Ichigo tells them the rough outline of his and Chad’s conversation. He can almost feel his fingers twitch and his heart’s beating frantically. 

“New National? Didn’t we check there?” Rukia asks, unlocking the car doors.

Ichigo shakes his head, “Apparently not good enough!”

The drive’s too long for Ichigo’s standards. He’s tapping his fingers and Rukia looks about ready to strangle him while shouting that red lights aren’t her fault, but she doesn’t. Mostly because she feels the same way. Ishida remains quiet, only watches the city go by outside.

“How bad is it?” 

Ichigo meets his eye in the rearview mirror, “We don’t know yet.”

“That sounds ominous,” is his only comment.

They finally, fucking finally, make it there and Ichigo all but springs from the car, running to Chad. He’s already called the CSU here like the fucking professional he is and Ichigo should strive to be. He’s on the phone but hangs up when he sees them coming.

“This way,” he says and leads them through the building. Chad knows how impatient Ichigo is and Ichigo appreciates how he doesn’t stall. The entrance is tall and grey, almost bleeding into the sky. The glass-ceilings has it running down his back. They had been here, they had been right fucking here! Ichigo remembers talking to the foreman and looking at Ishida while he turned them down, telling them nobody had died in his building.

“How did we miss this?” he growls, pointed at no one in particular. 

He’d already proven public buildings were no problem and this one seemed to fill both criteria so far, public and under restoration. Workers are being interviewed throughout the lobby and the chairman of the theatre is giving his statement to a journalist. Ichigo isn’t envious of Mizuiro. He’ll have a field-day trying to get the reporter to hold or completely hand over the story.

“Where was the body found?” he asks and follows Chad through the lobby and past two stages.

“In the box,” he answers and takes them around and up. 

The stage area is gorgeous. It’s huge, light wood and heavy red curtains. Ichigo had wanted to take Karin and Yuzu here sometime. He’s not so sure he wants to anymore. The entire place reeks of decay and one look from Chad confirms his suspicion. Their victim had been here for a long time.

A crime scene unit leaves the box and one of them nods to Chad.

“Here,” Chad points to the last box and opens the curtain. The smell’s horrendous and Ichigo sees Rukia cover her nose. 

“What’s that smell?” Ishida asks.

“Human,” Ichigo replies quietly and steps over the naked body on the floor. They’ve tried turning it over, but a piece of her face seems to have stuck to the floor. The skin’s marbled and boils have formed across her body. She looks surreal in the dramatic light from the projectors, surrounded by a fairy ring of yellow markers and arrows. CSU has only just finished processing the scene.

Ichigo shakes his head.

Inoue appears in the doorway and enters with deceptive calm. She sits down next to him and looks him in the eyes, “She’s been here about two weeks.”

“What’s her story?” 

“She was killed efficiently. There was no torture. If it hadn’t been for the hole in her chest, most likely made post-mortem, and the location, I wouldn’t have connected the cases forensically,” Inoue rises and writes a few notes on her clipboard.

“That’s good,” Rukia mumbles.

“Better if she’d been alive,” Ichigo counters.

“She has all her teeth, her prints are intact. I won’t know if she’s been the victim of any sexual violence before I get her back to the morgue.” Inoue licks her lips and then takes a breath, “How close are you to catching him?”

Ichigo can’t do much else but shake his head. Inoue nods.

“You’ll get him,” she assures him and leaves with one of the CSU trailing her. 

Ichigo stands as well, steps over her and exits the box. Ishida hasn’t set foot inside and Ichigo deems that incessantly clever. He turns down the corner and down into the lobby. The others follow him there and when he stops they gather in a loose circle.

“So what do we know?” he asks at large.

“He’s patient,” Rukia answers, “Remarkably so.”

“Or he’s been busy,” Ishida suggests. “Couldn’t he have other things on his plate than this?”

“Like what?”

“A job? Reigning in the psychos he’s got working for him? Controlling the Yakuza?”

“Ishida,” Rukia admonishes and looks sternly at him, “Organized Crime says, they’re not involved.”

“Just because Organized Crime says they aren’t, doesn’t mean they couldn’t be,” Ishida argues. “The entire infrastructure of the Yakuza has changed in the last six years. If they’ve been able to do that without the Organized Crime units knowledge, who’s to say what they can pull off.”

“It’s not the Yakuza,” Rukia denies and shakes her head.

Ishida clenches his jaws, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because Abarai Renji is currently finishing three years of undercover work and he’s heard nothing of this, that’s how.”

Ishida doesn’t answer this.

“Look, I know it’s hard when you think your theory’s right and no one wants to listen, but a wrong theory is just as dangerous as no theory,” Rukia says, a soothing edge in her tone. “You’re new. You’ll learn.”

And Ichigo catches something in Ishida’s eyes then, something that goes against everything Rukia has just said. Something in his eyes looks worn and tired, that you only can after years and years of work. The tilt of his head speaks of earned pride and not youthful arrogance and Ichigo wonders where that tilt comes from and what Ishida’s done to earn it. 

Ishida casts his eyes down then and the look is gone, “I understand. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You didn’t know,” Rukia says calmly. 

“Alright, what else do we –“ Ichigo starts, but is interrupted by Chad turning to him, “Ichigo?” 

“Yeah?”

Chad gestures for him to look outside. Inoue’s coming his way, looking upset and determined. Ichigo turns to her and she stops in front of him, staring into his eyes for a short while.

“There’s a hand, unaccounted for,” she tells him and his face slowly dons a frown.

“A hand?”

Inoue nods and Ichigo frowns deeper, “A hand?”

 

They’d talked about books. In the middle of the night, striped by the shadows from Ichigo’s blinds, they’d talked about books. It’d had been the first of their nighttime discussions. They’d been intertwined and fitted like porcelain that had been broken and put back together. Ichigo didn’t feel the need to constantly check and guard himself in Ishida’s company, and the other seemed less edgy and passive aggressive. 

“Why’d you join the force?” Ishida asked. They didn’t usually talk much after sex, but tonight they were both wide awake and aware.

Ichigo began carting his hand through Ishida’s hair and he felt the other close his eyes. “My mom. My dad. My sisters. My entire family, really.”

“How’s that?”

“My mom was shot and killed in a drive by. My dad owns a little clinic in Katsushika now –“

“I thought you came from Shizuoka?”

“I don’t,” he shook his head, “I’m Edokko, through and through.”

There was a pause, “What about you? Why’d you become a cop?”

Ishida opened his eyes and turned to look into the ceiling, “Family business.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was going to be the first lawyer in the family.” Ishida didn’t sound proud or bitter, simply factual. 

“Why’d you quit pre-law?” Ichigo asked and looked at his profile. His eyes were illuminated by the streetlight outside. A rumble of thunder came in suddenly. Ichigo sat up and looked out the window. It was hazy with rain and finally the storm they’d awaited since last week came rolling over the city.

He opened his mouth, closed it, hesitant. It was like there’s something he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to word it. Ishida shrugged, “It’s hard to say. I guess I didn’t like the prospect of violating my own moral code on some murderer or rapist’s behalf.”

Ichigo looked down and saw Ishida return his gaze. Ichigo slid back down and wrapped an arm around him.

“My mom died in a home invasion,” he said then.

Ichigo stroked his hipbone with his thumb, “This that tragic backstory?”

“No,” Ishida shook his head, “It was solved within the week.”

They lay there for a while neither of them saying anything. Ichigo could tell Ishida was uncomfortable talking about his mother and Ichigo couldn’t blame him.

“How about we change topic?” he suggested.

Ishida sighed, “Oh God, yes.”

“You read a lot?” Ichigo tried then and saw Ishida’s entire demeanor change. Somehow it felt a little strained around the edges, then it smoothed out.

“Only whenever I can,” he smiled, “I’ve just finished re-reading Heart of Darkness. It’s simply amazing.”

“It’s alright,” Ichigo agreed. He’d read it once on Mizuiro’s behest. 

“Alright? Alright? How can you say that? It’s a literary masterpiece! I suppose you’re one of the people who likes The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo then?”

Ishida had sat up and was leaning over him now, looking him in the eye. Ichigo had to admit he loved riling Ishida up and it seemed Ishida loved doing it in return. Neither of them had learned yet, they always fell in feet first with their heads in the clouds.

“I’ve read the entire series,” Ichigo said, “And I enjoyed them.”

Ishida looked completely flabbergasted. He doesn’t stop running his thumb across his collarbone.

“I also like The Da Vinci Code.”

Ishida shook his head, “Why have I fallen into bed with such a heathen.”

“God Ishida, you’re such a snob.”

Thunder roamed the skies and put an unusual soundtrack to their conversation. Ichigo could tell Ishida wanted to defend his honor, but that he in ways was proud of being what Ichigo’d claimed. It was something Ichigo liked immensely about Ishida. The way he took pride in everything he did. What he read, what he wore, what he ate, what he listened to. Not to say he was dressed in Armani pants at night or that he only ate caviar straight from the Caspian Sea, he seemed perfectly happy to sleep in one of Ichigo’s old shirts and eat wheat toast with cream cheese, but he seemed more at ease in a Zegna drinking expensive coffee from the hills of Columbia.

“I just don’t understand why you’d waste your time with subpar literature when there’s such fantastic classics out there still. Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment is an excellent example.”

Ichigo supposed he wouldn’t.

“I’m surrounded by death, violence and misery every day. When I come home I don’t want to read about human suffering. I enjoy reading terrible crime novels because they’re nothing like the real world,” Ichigo answers and adds, “And I have read Crime and Punishment, just for the record.”

Ishida’s quiet for a while, but he didn’t stop skimming his hands down his stomach. And while he looks stunning in a three piece suit, he is absolutely delectable wearing nothing but Ichigo’s threadbare academy shirt.

Ichigo hummed and Ishida settled back against his side and made himself comfortable.

“It’s still terrible literature.”

Ichigo couldn’t help but laugh.

 

Back at the precinct, they’re all standing around the hand. Inoue’s finishing up the examination of the female body found at the scene, her prints are being scanned and hopefully they’ll have her identity within the hour. 

The hand, however, is somewhat of a surprise. It’s in as bad a shape as the body, but it’s not hers. They’d found the tape in the palm of it, but some of the liquids from it may have ruined it. Chad’s going over it with a technician now.

The director had called in Ichigo to tell him that this case was one of the worst cases in his time and that he’d have Ichigo see to it that it was solved. Ichigo had nodded and assured him that they were making headway. The director had nodded in return and sent him on his way.

Ichigo’s never been good with authority. Since high school he’s had a hard time respecting his teachers and it’s only gotten worse over the years. While being friends with Keigo never helps, if you want to rebuild respect to authority, it’s also incredibly informative. Ichigo became a raging feminist in large parts because of Keigo and Kumiko. He became a raging opponent to suffixes when he met his director for the first time, because no one, in the history of anything, ever deserved an honorific less than he did. He had no feel for his department and mostly sat around messing with papers and drinking coffee. Ichigo didn’t feel bad about lying to his face. He was a kind of man who wanted to see results in the form of numbers and not in the form of life. Ishida had laughed when Ichigo had complained about his the first time and said he was like the businessman on the fourth planet. At first Ichigo had been confused. Then Ishida explained it was from The Little Prince. 

They’d read it that same night, forgoing sex. That had been yesterday.

Ishida’s frowning at the hand, like he’s never seen anything like it. It’s marbled, like the woman they’d just found, nails blackened and the sweet smell of rot hanging over it.

Rukia taps her fingers, “Where’s the rest?”

No one has the answer. 

Inoue rejoins them then and sighs, “I found a series of numbers written in the palm. I had Asano-kun do a quick search and it’s the number to a phonebooth not too far from here.”

Ichigo imagines Keigo using a regular computer and can almost see him die internally. Ichigo pities him.

“He’s going to call you again,” Rukia states and looks to Ichigo who nods. 

“It would seem so,” he agrees.

“I’m running a DNA-test and I have its prints, otherwise there’s not much I can tell you. Wait, it had ink stains and traces of heroin on the fingers,” Inoue tells them and hands Ichigo the chart. 

He flips through it idly, scanning the sheets and committing the necessary to his memory. He’s about to ask her about the missing ring, but Chad comes through the door, his laptop in his hands, “The tape’s done.”

Ichigo puts down the chart and goes to him. They all gather around one of the steel tables. Even Inoue’s standing there, wiping her scalpel as she does. 

“Alright, go.”

Chad presses play.

“My, my. What took you so long? Are the riddles too hard? The next round will be a great deal faster. If you can keep up, that is.”

He chuckles and Ichigo takes a calming breath. Ishida meets his eyes across the table and it helps keeping his anger in check.

“Well, I’m sure you’re dying to hear the next riddle.” Ishida rolls his eyes and Ichigo’s tempted to do the same. “And here it is: Run, faster boy, run. The time’s ticking and tocking. Need a helping hand? Godspeed.”

And that’s the end of it. 

“We need to get to the phone booth,” Ishida says.

Ichigo’s phone rings then. It sounds incredibly loud in the void of the morgue. He holds up a finger and takes the call, “Yeah?”

“Ichigo, I found him!” Keigo says. He looks up.

“You what?”

“I found the bastard,” Keigo sneers again, “I’ve just downloaded his address to your phone. His name is Granz, Szayel Aporro Granz. I fucking found his ass!”

“What?” Rukia mouths.

“Keigo’s found the hacker,” Ichigo answers. “We’re on our way.”

“Good.”

And Keigo hangs up. Ichigo’s never heard him this concise before. 

“What about the riddle?” Rukia asks.

“You and Chad go to the booth. Ishida and I are going to arrest this son of a bitch.”

Rukia nods and Chad starts for the door. 

Ishida goes around the table, “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Chad and Rukia are more than capable to handle this.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of transportation. Neither of us can drive.”

Ichigo pauses and frowns. 

“You raise a good point,” he says.

Ishida shrugs. And Ichigo might just be a little bit in love. He looks over Ishida’s shoulder and sees Inoue smile as him, though she’s trying to keep it to herself.

“Shut up,” he mouths at her, but her smile only widens. 

It’s odd how used to death one gets, enough so that one can smile unaffected in the midst of it.

 

Mizuiro’s not hard to persuade into driving them there. He has field-training and sometimes, like today, when the press are wolfing down anything, it’s clear to see that he questions his career-choice. He dumps is current workload on one of his poor, poor interns. They want his job, mostly because they want to be him, but they don’t realize exactly how much work that entails.

Mizuiro, unlike Chad, is a far more adventurous driver. While he’s patient, he also has a tendency to break the speed limits when it suits him, oftentimes with a bored expression on his face. Much like the face he makes when Keigo starts rambling about memes and internet culture. Mizuiro once told him he doesn’t understand why it’s necessary; all the memes Keigo knows, are memes Mizuiro sent him.

They park in an alley behind a pompous, but rundown building. Ishida frowns deeply when he sees it, leaning forward between the two front seat to get a better look at it.

“That’s disgusting,” he says.

“It doesn’t really reek of crime,” Mizuiro points out and Ichigo agrees.

“Depends on the crime, I’d say,” Ishida counters.

The building’s a blend of eclectically terrible classism and post modernism. The voluminous decorations and almost vulgar homage to ancient Rome are harshly contradicted by the strange shapes incorporated into the building. It’s been painted a soft pink that would glow in the right light, but since the buildings surrounding it never lets that light in, it stands dull and unattractive.

“You stay here,” Ichigo says and gets out, “Mizuiro, you come with me.”

“You’re kidding,” Ishida leans back, looking wronged. 

Ichigo sticks his head inside, “Do you have a gun?”

Ishida sighs and shakes his head.

“You’re safer out here,” he makes sure Ishida understands that. The other meets his eyes, “Fine.”

“Good. On the bright side, you’ll have the entire ride with him.” Ichigo smiles as he closes the door and gestures for Mizuiro to come along.

He hears a faint, “Yessss,” when he closes the door. He loves Ishida’s S’s. They’re usually hissed when he’s aroused or incredibly annoyed, which is a combination Ichigo’s been on the receiving end of a lot lately.

He wants to smile. And that’s probably the biggest effect Ishida’s had on him so far. Ichigo’s somewhat infamous for is frown, his friends even going so far to naming him the Frownyface of the Month for six consecutive months. He hates his friends.

He loves his friends.

But God, he hates his friends.

And he’s beginning to think that if he and Ishida continues like this for long, he won’t be able to pretend it’s casual anymore. He’s sometimes taken aback by how easily misjudged Ishida is. Sure, he’s still an asshole from time to time, but Ichigo’s gotten better at reading him. His dickish idiosyncrasies aren’t a bigger part of his personality than Ichigo’s hair is of his.

They enter the building and heads directly for the 8th floor. The entire building seems to want them to leave. It’s drooping, a stark purple on the walls. They take the stairs, slowly ascending. 

“How’s Keigo?” Ichigo asks to keep the miasma of the place from getting to them. It feels like it has thousands of stories to tell, none of them happy and even fewer of them bearable.

“He’s angry,” Mizuiro tells him, “Hasn’t left his office in three days now.”

“Three days?”

“He came out to sleep in the breakroom.”

Ichigo knows Keigo has a tendency to bury himself in his work. But then again, he’s has rarely been beaten at his own game before. Even though Keigo’s usually bravado and big talk, Ichigo knows he doubts himself. After a night out, Keigo had gotten so wasted he’d have to sleep on Ichigo and Kumiko’s couch. He’d told Ichigo a lot of things that night and most of them are things Ichigo never plans on telling another person.

They’re coming up to the 8th floor and Ichigo unclasps his gun and pulls it out. Mizuiro copies him and they move down the hall to the 15th apartment from the right. The carpet masks their footsteps and Mizuiro gets behind the door, ready to run point. Usually, Ichigo runs point, but Mizuiro hasn’t done breaching in years. And he’s a fierce shot, so Ichigo doesn’t doubt it’ll be this Szayel Aporro Granz who’s in trouble and not Mizuiro.

Ichigo nods once, twice, thrice, and then kicks in the door.

“Police!” Mizuiro shouts, “Szayel Aporro Granz?”

The apartment is covered in papers and books, several screens and computers in the back of the room, casting an otherworldly glare into the room, something’s cooking in the kitchen, but from the smell of it, Ichigo’s dead-certain it isn’t food. Granz is crouching on the floor, but quickly gets to his feet. He takes one look at them and then he runs for the window. Ichigo and Mizuiro hurry after him.

Ichigo trips over schematics and papers, pushes himself off the wall. He quickly glances around, making sure no one’s here besides Granz. 

He’s onto the fire-escape already two floors down.

“Take the stairs, I’ll follow here!” Ichigo orders and jumps out of the window. He hears Mizuiro call the station through his walkie, and Ichigo hopes reinforcements will be here sooner rather than later.

The stairs are thrumming dramatically with their footfalls and leaps. He rushes down the rusty, metallic stairs, slipping and grabbing a hold of the bars with his free hand. Granz is almost on all the way down and Ichigo jumps the next set, almost skidding off the stairs, but quickly gaining foothold and hurrying after Granz. 

The other’s on the ground, running left, towards the car. Ichigo fucks the remaining two sets and simply jumps off then and there. Ishida’s in that car and knowing him, he won’t obey staying there when he sees Granz come charging his way. And he doesn’t have a fucking piece on him. Ichigo wills himself to run faster, hurrying into the alley.

He’s still twenty meters behind him and Granz is coming up on the car fast. Ichigo can’t see Ishida in there and his heart’s hammering and screaming at himself for being so stupid. 

Granz looks over his shoulder and in that minute, the car-door springs open and close-lines Granz mid-run. He falls to the ground, knocked out cold, a trickle of blood from his nose, and Ichigo stops, his breath coming fast and heavy. Mizuiro comes up behind him, still on with the precinct, but cancelling all previous requests and ending the transmission.

Ishida gets out and stretches, steps over Granz and goes to stand next to Ichigo.

“Yeah, I was much safer in the car.”

Ichigo nods, “I dare say.”

“Not so helpless now, am I?”

“I’m starting to doubt you ever were,” Ichigo admits.

Ishida chuckles looking frightfully competent then, as if there’s a game they’re playing Ichigo doesn’t get.

 

“How’re you doing back there?” Ichigo asks. Ishida looks entirely absorbed in his phone.

Granz is slowly coming to his senses. He’s groaning audibly and clenching his eyes. Ishida doesn’t pay him any mind, despite sitting next to him. Ichigo continues to be impressed with how unfeeling Ishida can be when the mood strikes him. 

“Having the time of my life,” Ishida answers.

Mizuiro smiles in this crooked, devilish way only he can pull off. He catches Ishida’s eyes in the mirror but quickly returns them to the road. Cars are trickling in and out of every crevice and clotting the streets. Mizuiro’s a patient, if speedy driver, that aspect of his personality bleeds into everything he does, really. It’s the reason, Ichigo believes, he and Keigo work as well as they do.

Maybe the lack thereof is the reason he and Ishida work. 

Ichigo watches Ishida in the side-view mirror. He can almost see the bruise he sucked into his skin two days ago. Ishida had been livid when he’d seen it, stomping out of the bathroom pointing his toothbrush at him.

“What the fuck is this, strawberry?!” he’d shouted and stabbed him with the toothbrush. Ichigo couldn’t help but laugh at him and within seconds Ishida was rolling his eyes. Ichigo kissed his jaw, tried to do it as reverently as he could without giving himself away. Ishida had given in when Ichigo had licked the mark he’d put on him. He’d pushed him away but a second later, continuing to brush his teeth and sending Kurosaki a withering look, trying to contain his smile. While retreating to the bathroom, Ichigo had only heard token-protests and when Ishida’s had reemerged, Ichigo had been treated to kisses tasting like peppermint.

Granz hisses and opens his eyes. His glasses are broken and crooked, but Ishida had rolled his eyes and said the glass wasn’t even lenses.

He’s still entertaining the phone, but he looks up and meets Ichigo’s eyes, lifting his eyebrow. Ichigo shakes his head and the other looks away, smiling.

 

Renji’s waiting for them back at the precinct. Next to him is Captain Aizen Sosuke. He has his characteristically soft smile on his lips and nods in agreement with whatever Renji’s saying. When he sees them, he finishes their conversation and leaves, though not before giving Granz a considering look. 

Aizen is a very calm man. He doesn’t seem like a person capable of becoming captain but he’d done so through hard work and friendliness, really. His attitude makes him easy to trust and his subordinates, especially his lieutenant, adore him. Ichigo’s never dealt much with him. He’s one of the three captains heading the Organized Crime department, the two others being Ukitake and Kuchiki Byakuya, Rukia’s adoptive older brother.

Granz is moved along, cuffed behind his back. Ichigo’s leading him straight to interrogation. Renji falls into step with him, gives Ishida a quick once-over, and nods at Mizuiro. 

“Ichigo,” he greets and lifts his brow at Granz. And Ichigo agrees. His sporting a black and white, almost 80’s-like outfit, pink shoulder-length hair and faux-glasses. There’s something in his air and manner of walking that makes it evident that he believes his superior to everyone around him. It’s different from when Ishida does it, the sway in his hips reveal a certain pride as opposed to conceitedness. Ichigo doesn’t know, he’s always been attracted to people with confidence in who they are and what they stand for.

And you don’t doubt Ishida knows.

Mizuiro breaks off from them, saying he’s going to check on Keigo. 

“Give him my regards,” Renji says and Mizuiro nods. 

Ishida follows them, putting his phone away then. 

“Who’s this?” Renji asks and gestures to Ishida.

“Ishida Uryuu, probie of the month,” Ichigo answers.

Ishida doesn’t even look up, “I’ve been signed on for six, so I sure hope not.”

“And he is?” he nods to Renji in a way that belies his interest.

“Abarai Renji, lieutenant to Kuchiki Byakuya,” Ichigo responds smoothly.

This had Ishida look up and frown. Renji, like Ichigo, is a red-head, though his came out of a bottle. He’s sporting tattoos, some of which he got during his time undercover and some he already had. Renji and Rukia are childhood friends both of them growing up in the shadier neighborhoods of Tokyo. They entered the Academy together, but Rukia was hired directly into Organized Crime and Renji wasn’t. Instead, he worked his way up from beat cop to lieutenant. Sometimes, Ichigo forgets how much work Renji has put into this and how much he actually deserves the glory he’s getting now. 

And he’s wearing a bandana, white, thank God. Ichigo’s not sure what Ishida would’ve mumbled to him if Renji had shown up in his tiger-striped or “Here’s Johnny” one. He probably would’ve laughed himself silly.

“And what’s he doing here?” Ishida questions, an edge in his voice.

“I’d like to take the interrogation,” Renji says. Ishida almost bristles, but he keeps his mouth shut, which Ichigo considers a victory. 

“Be my guest,” Ichigo agrees and steps into the elevator. Interrogation is on the fifth floor along with the rest of Homicide. 

Renji has experience in the interrogation room Ichigo can’t say he has yet. Rukia told him he was a natural, so there’s that. But Renji had this practiced ease when going in, besides he’s rested and not emotionally involved like Ichigo is.

Granz is quiet, but Ichigo can tell – and he swears it’s like a gift, a sixth sense really – he’s gearing up to something. Ishida’s leaning back against the panel, his eyes closed. Ichigo catches Renji watching him with a frown. He doesn’t blame him, Ishida walks the halls without the lights hurting him. 

Interrogation is a small room, grey and impersonal. If the walls could talk, they would tell stories about blood and sorrow, tragedy upon tragedy. Granz is sitting in the chair, looking directly into the mirror smirking. Ichigo, Ishida, Renji and Keigo are standing outside and looking in. 

Keigo came up to see the bloke who fried his motherboard. He hasn’t said a word, only watches him and frowns. He brought a file on Granz and the investigation so far. He leaves after two minutes without a word.

“When’re you going in?” Ichigo asks.

“Another ten minutes. Let him sweat.”

”He doesn’t exactly look to be sweating,” Ishida comments, studying his nails.

And it’s an astute observation. If anything, Granz looks like he’s pleased to be there. Renji narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. He’s tackled bigger and more brutish people in the past, though Granz seems to be a different beast all together. But they caught him.

Ichigo’s phone rings and he steps away to pick it up. Ishida follows him with his eyes, but looks away when Renji turns to him to make another observation or give him a few tricks of the trade before he goes in.

“Ichigo,” Rukia says, “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, we did. How’s it going?”

She sounds exhausted, bone-tired. The kind you only get when the world itself seems too much to bear. She breathes out audibly before answering.

“We’ve been chasing phone-booths all over town. Chad’s locating the next one now, but we’re up against the clock here. He’s given us ten minutes to find the next and we’re in Adachi and before that Minato. We’ve been all over Tokyo and we have no idea when this thing’s up.”

Ichigo frowns, “Keep going, we don’t know who’s at the end of this.”

“We’ve found another hand, two feet and a thigh. We’ve called Inoue and asked her to bring coolers.”

“Jesus,” Ichigo exclaims and Ishida turns his head towards him. Ichigo holds up a finger, but the other keeps watching him. 

“Where did you find them?” Ichigo asks.

He can imagine Rukia shaking her head, “By the phones. They were in cardboard boxes in giftwrapping and topped off with a bow. He’s … he’s a real piece of work, Ichigo.”

And Ichigo can’t anything but agree with her. 

“Yeah. Good work, keep me updated.”

“Likewise,” Rukia says and hangs up.

He returns to Ishida and Renji, both looking at him now, “He’s left body-parts by the phone-booths he’s directed Rukia and Chad to.”

“That is one sick dude,” Renji says.

Ishida frowns, “Do we know who they belong to?”

“Chances are they belong to the same person whose hand we’ve got here. But we won’t know for sure until Inoue’s run a DNA-test on them.” Ichigo turns to look through the glass and to Granz. 

“How long before we get the ID on the body from the opera?” Renji asks.

Ichigo shakes his head and turns back towards the glass, “We have priority for once, but it’s still a huge database. An hour maybe.”

Renji follows him and nods, “I think he’s ready. Ishida,” he gestures for the door and Ishida perks up, nodding. 

“Just follow my lead, don’t let him get under your skin and don’t do anything rash,” Renji instructs, hands Ishida the file Keigo brought and then opens the door for him. Ishida shoots Ichigo a last look, and Ichigo nods in what he hopes is an assuring manner. 

Renji lets himself dump into the chair to the left and Ishida pulls out the one to the right and sits down carefully. He opens Granz’ file and reads it. 

There’s this anticipation in the air. Ichigo can feel it out here. It’s like the last few minutes before the curtain rises, the audience holds their breath, the musicians have tuned their instruments and everybody waits for the conductor to show. Nobody breathes. It’s completely silent. And then the curtain rises.

“So,” Renji says, “You’re the mastermind who broke into Blue Cross’ servers?”

“And yours, allegedly, lest we forget,” Granz purrs and smiles. It feels cold and slick, laced with a sense of grandeur only Granz would seem to appreciate. 

Renji lifts his eyebrows, “Where were you last Sunday?”

“Well, I was home.” Granz bares his teeth, giving a blinding smile. Neither Renji nor Ishida seem to be affected by it, “I believe, I have a right to an attorney?”

“You do,” Renji agrees.

Granz laughs, “Fantastic, I won’t be needing one, but it’s always good to know.”

Ichigo can practically feel Ishida roll his eyes, or at least, he can sense that he wants to. Ichigo watches Granz’ body language, he sits like a king on his throne, like an actor ready to play his part. He’s completely at ease, legs spread and hands folded in front of his face.

“I see. Did you murder Sato Hikaru?” Renji asks then.

Granz laughs again and shakes his head, “I didn’t. I didn’t kill his father either. Or Takenaka. Or Nishimura. Oh, wait. You don’t know her name yet, do you? I retract that.”

“That’s not how it works,” Renji says.

“That’s exactly how it works, officer,” Granz sneers, smiling, “Ask any lawyer.”

Ichigo wants Ishida to say something then, but he doesn’t. He stays silent. Ichigo has a feeling he’ll stay quiet. It feels as if he’s laying a trap of some sort, but Ichigo can’t be sure. Ishida’s the type of person who plans ahead for about almost anything. 

Ishida taps the table, “And Yamada?”

“What of her?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering why you didn’t mention her the first time,” Ishida shakes his head and turns a page in his file. Renji turns his head towards the glass, hiding a half-smile from Granz, who’s too busy staring at Ishida.

Ichigo’s watching with crossed arms. Granz most likely didn’t mention Yamada because he would’ve lied by listing her among those he didn’t kill. Ichigo assumes Granz thinks he’s clever for playing that mindgame, but it’s one they’ve all seen before. Or, he and Renji has, but it’ll be first of many Ishida sees.

He can almost feel them biding their time, talking to him to find out what makes him tick.

Renji gets up, shaking his head, “What I don’t understand is why you’re doing this? We know you’re not doing this alone, is this cause worth killing for?”

“We all have something worth killing for, officer. I don’t expect you to understand mine.”

Renji starts pacing slowly, circling Granz like a predator, “Is it also worth dying for?”

“I doubt I’ll get the death sentence for hacking a few computers. Who knows, maybe the NPA will give me a job,” Granz tease, a malicious glint in his eyes. Ichigo’s glad Keigo’s not here. He’s not proud of the way he was hired, especially because the first thing he got to do was sort through all the files of all the people that they’d have to let walk after his shenanigans. 

“I doubt you understand the severity of the situation. Five people have died.”

“Five that you know off,” Granz corrects him.

Renji shakes his head, “I will drag you through heaven and hellfire if that means bringing justice to the families of those you helped murder.”

Granz smiles, entirely unimpressed.

 

It’s another two hours before Renji leaves the room. Ishida has said nothing the entire time, only writing down a few notes once in a while. 

Renji’s prodded and poked, shouted and whispered menacingly. He’s displayed every muscle he has and tried to coax reactions out of Granz. Granz has kept his responses sweet and short, a few times tensing when someone suggested another be responsible for the hacking or that he had help. Granz seems like he’s used to being the Primadonna and doesn’t like to share the limelight.

“He’s sharp,” Renji says.

“You’ve tackled worse,” Ichigo counters.

Renji shakes his head, “I was talking about the probie.”

“That’s why you left him alone in there?”

Renji doesn’t answer. Instead he turns to the glass as Granz says, “Where’d the pineapple go?”

Ishida says nothing, just turns another page. He’s been through the file a few times now.

“Is he coming back soon or –“

“What I don’t understand is how you broke into Blue Cross’ servers,” Ishida interrupts. Granz looks wrong-footed suddenly, unexpectedly being cut off by the silent newbie in the room seems unfathomable to him. Nobody interrupts an actor on stage, especially not in the middle of his monologue.

Ichigo chuckles, Ishida’s good.

Ishida looks up, “I just don’t get it. I thought you’d have to be mad brilliant to do that, you just don’t strike me as all that clever.”

“Excuse me?”

“It says here you didn’t even finish high school. And it’s not like you even succeeded. You’re boasting of your own ability to fail. But then as aforementioned, you couldn’t even finish something as rudimentary as high school.”

Granz goes rigid. His nostrils flare and his mouth tightens. He suddenly doesn’t seem below leaning over and choking Ishida with his bare hands.

“Listen here, you little weasel! I’m the smartest person you’ll ever come across. I’m not some low-level thug you can trick into a confession with oh so clever rouses. I’ll see through all of them. That’s a promise,” Granz sneers, the smile gone from his face. 

Ishida shrugs and leans back.

“How long has he been here?” Renji asks and looks to Ichigo. 

“About three weeks.”

“This his what? 5th interview?”

“First,” Ichigo replies.

Renji looks completely surprised, “He’s got a knack for it.”

Ishida sits back up and straightens, “Alright, so how did you do it?”

“Do what?” Granz asks, his smirk back in place. Ichigo has to admit he’s impressed. Ishida’s wavering from dominant to subservient, constantly keeping Granz on his toes, making sure Granz can’t get a read on him. They’re running circles around each other, but where Granz is chasing, Ishida’s leading. Ichigo’s sure he has a plan now.

“How did you fall into this?” Ishida repeats and taps his pencil a few times.

“What makes you think I fell into it?” Granz questions and smiles.

“So you chose it?”

“We were chosen. Allegedly,” Granz clarifies.

Ishida cracks his back, sounding disbelieving, “So among the eight of you, you’re allegedly the smartest.”

“Among the ten of us, definitely.”

Ishida has had Granz admit to more details than they hoped for with some artfully placed questions and a scarily accurate read on his character. Ichigo frowns. Ishida’s almost too good to be true.

Renji perks up, “There’s ten of them?”

Ichigo nods, “So it would seem.”

“So among the ten of you, you were the only one qualified to kill a 150 pound chemistry student without her overtaking you?”

Granz’ expression clouds immediately. 

“I could’ve taken Takenaka easy, but Nnoitra stole him in front of me. Instead, I was saddled with that little bitch. Allegedly.”

Ichigo’s heart skips a beat. He wonders if Granz is aware of how much he’s giving them. Because even though it’ll be difficult to use in court, they’re very much allowed to use it during their investigation.

Ichigo hurries and pulls out his phone, “Keigo?”

“Your word is my command,” Keigo answers and while it’s a good deal tenser than usual, it’s good to have him bantering again.

“I need you to look up the name Nnoitra. According to Granz he killed Takenaka Ken,” Ichigo asks him.

“Already on it,” Keigo says, and Ichigo almost forgets, “Look up Nishimura as well.”

“Will do,” and then he hangs up.

Granz laughs then, boisterous, like he’s the one in charge. There’s a sheen in his eyes that tells him he wants someone to acknowledge his superiority. That sheen also seem carnivorous. He’s been tucking on his chain, leaning forward and baring his teeth like a rabid dog. Ichigo would’ve stopped for today. Granz seems completely off-balance.

Ishida runs a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry, so you, the smartest person I’ll ever meet, was beaten in a game of drawing the straw? That seems impossibly stupid.”

“Don’t goad him, Ishida,” Ichigo mumbles, he has a bad feeling about this.

“I don’t have to prove myself to you,” Granz sneers and Ishida has him on the offense again. Ichigo wants to knock on the glass, but Renji gives him a pointed look, so he doesn’t. The only reason Renji allows this is because he doesn’t know Ishida can’t defend himself. If Granz decides to throw himself across the table and gets a hold of Ishida … Ichigo shudders. They’d have to tear them apart and Ichigo doubts either of them will be faring well thereafter. 

Ishida chuckles and licks his lips, “I’m sure.”

“You want me to prove it to you? Do you?” Granz raises his voice and leans forward. Ishida doesn’t move an inch. Ichigo’s frown deepens. 

“That’s not something you can prove,” Ishida closes the files.

“I had that bitch crying before I even touched her. I didn’t even have to lift a finger, all I needed was to tell her exactly what was in store for her and then she was reduced to a begging, sniffling, pathetic mess.”

“That just proves you’re sick, it doesn’t prove you’re smart.”

“It’s my doing that we know every keystroke you make, every internet search you do. Had I been anything less than what I am, you would’ve found it,” Granz hisses.

Ishida shrugs, “I could do that.”

“Would you have known to add other chemicals to her workstation to confuse the police? Would you have been able to carve her heart out and hold it in his hands while it was still beating? Would you have been able to stand with life and death in your hands, weighing both and deeming life unworthy?!” he counts off as he foams around his mouth and tries to stand. His eyes are wide and his teeth bared in a sneer. He can almost touch Ishida and Ichigo’s ready to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Ishida gathers his folders and stands, “Thank you, mr. Granz, you’ve been most informative.”

Granz looks wrought and furious. If he had been a snake, he would’ve lunged for Ishida and sunk his fangs into his flesh. He looks ready to spit poison and squeeze the very life out of him. 

“Allegedly,” Ishida adds and smiles to him as he exits the room. 

Ichigo breathes a sigh of relief, which, to the untrained ear, could sound exasperated.

Outside Ishida breathes out, the air coming out shakily. He hands the folders over to Renji and runs a hand over his face. Ichigo can tell Ishida wants to go to him. Ichigo wants him to go to him. He wants to hold Ishida and brush the hair out of his eyes and tell him that the room will wash away.

“If I don’t make probie of the month now, I quit.”

 

Ichigo has dragged Ishida into a conference room. Renji promised to take good care of Granz and get him to his holding cell and Keigo’d called a minute ago telling them that Nnoitra must be a codename or something, because he couldn’t find anybody with that name. Granz’ real name was still MIA but he seemed far more attached to his handle than his birth name. It seemed the group of people they were looking for had taken new names and identities to throw them off. Which, smart. He also told Keigo to do a thorough sweep of his hard drive and see if he came up with a Trojan Horse or something of the like, but to enable it and leave it. He didn’t want whoever was behind this to know they’d found the bug.

But Ichigo had taken one look at Ishida and deemed it wise if they had a talk. In private.

Ishida’s leaning against the table, sipping a cup of coffee, and that really speaks to his state of mind that he hasn’t complained about the beans or the lack of syrup yet. Ichigo’s sitting in one of the chairs, spinning it in quarter circles, rolling a pen between his fingers.

The light’s harsh, but that never seems to affect Ishida. Sometimes Ichigo’s envious.

“How are you?” Ichigo asks after Ishida’s had a chance to swallow a mouthful of that Godawful coffee.

He nods, then shakes his head, “I’m fine. Just surprised how much he got to me.”

“You learn to shut them out. But you did good, you did really good, actually.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Abarai-kun. Without him I wouldn’t have known what buttons to push.”

“Yeah, Renji’s great like that,” Ichigo agrees.

They fall silent. Ichigo continues watching Ishida and Ishida keeps drinking his coffee. He sneaks a look at Ichigo and sighs. He sets down the coffee and comes to stand in front of and between his legs. Ichigo leans forward and lifts a hand to his hip and runs his thumb across it.

It’s like magnetism, this. Here where no one can see them, they’re finally shifting towards each other and it makes Ichigo’s heart beat a little faster, makes his ears burn and toes curl.

Ishida breathes in through his nose and strokes Ichigo’s hair. He cups his jaw and leads Ichigo up and out of the chair. They stand pressed together still only touching each other. Ichigo can almost feel his fingertips humming as they reach for Ishida’s face. He holds it gently and leans down to kiss him.

It’s like most of their kisses. It’s slow. It’s unfathomably eloquent, it’s in tongues. Ichigo has so many things he wants Ishida to know, but he can never seem to find the right words or the right time to say them. He’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing and suddenly be without Ishida in his life. He almost laughs at himself, because no one should be this attached after so short time, but it’s odd how it feels right. How Ishida feels like a missing piece that easily slots and fits into his life. 

He worries they’re too hasty, that they’ve known each other for three weeks and it’s impossible to fall in love that fast. Even Inoue and Shun, who are practically married and has been together for five years now, have never said “I love you” to each other. 

Ishida stifles whatever noise he was going to make. Ichigo steals it from his lips and saves it for a rainy day like today. 

Tokyo seems to be in a foul mood this week, rain and thunder, cold winds and eerie nights. It’s those nights that he’s made his home with Ishida. Amidst neon and cloudbursts, they live together, breathe together. 

“We shouldn’t do this here,” Ishida pulls away to say in between breaths. Ichigo agrees, wholeheartedly, he really does, but Ishida looks positively lethal. His lips are red and his eyes that undefinable shade of blue that Ichigo sees everywhere these days. 

Ichigo nods, just to show he didn’t ignore him.

Suddenly, someone knocks on the door, “Someone in here?”

They both look panicked for a second, step away from each other and fix what clothing they can, then Ichigo calls out, “Come in, we’re just about done here.”

The door opens and a horde of journalists trickle in, led by Mizuiro who raises his eyebrows at them. 

“Everything alright?” he asks them, eyes darting between them, taking in the state they’re both in.

“Ishida just had his first interrogation,” Ichigo tells him, a half-answer. It’s not uncommon that the rookie needs to be taken aside and explained that just because you stared into the abyss, you don’t have to step over the precipice and let it swallow you. Mizuiro nods solemnly then.

Ichigo excuses them and maneuvers them both out of the conference room. They both keep straight faces until they turn around a corner. They both start laughing, stopping and leaning against the wall. Ichigo feels oddly free in a way he hasn’t in a long time. 

Ishida looks at him, trying to hold back a shit-eating grin, “Very professional, very elegant.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you say anything in there,” Ichigo says and gives him a sideways glance.

“I didn’t want to draw attention to my state of complete dishevelment,” he shoots back and relaxes against the wall. “You’re handsy.”

Ichigo smiles and shrugs.

They stand and enjoy the quietude that never really is in the precinct. They enjoy not speaking, seems more fitting. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone he could do that with. 

The silence breaks as Ichigo’s phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and flips it open, “Yeah?”

“Ichigo,” Rukia sounds off. 

“What is it?” he pushes off the wall and nods for Ishida to walk with him. They hurry down the hallway towards the bullpen where they left their coats, while Renji took Granz to interrogation. Ishida swings around the corner and Ichigo’s right behind him.

“I … I can’t even … Get over here. We found the end.”

 

“What took you so long?” she asks when she sees them coming.

Ichigo shakes his head. Since neither of them have a car and Mizuiro was busy with a press-conference, they’d been forced to take the subway. Ishida had asked why they didn’t ask anyone from the CSU to give them a ride and while it would’ve been logical, Ichigo assured him it wasn’t worth it. That and his pride wouldn’t allow him to owe Kurotsuchi a favor like that.

“We took the subway.”

“You need to get your license. I don’t care which one of you, either, both,” Rukie sounds haggard, frayed in a way Ichigo hasn’t heard long. 

“What did you find?” 

She looks up and shakes her head, “Not what, who.”

Rukia gestures for them to follow and they do. The Yoyogi park’s one of Tokyo’s biggest, the trees here are old and proud. Every year, the Sakura Festival takes place here and thousands upon thousands show up. There’s a bird singing despite the chill in the air and the branches are scarcely covering their modesty with golden and red leaves. October is breathing heavily down their necks and coloring the city brown and gold with fallen leaves and autumn ads.

Chad’s standing next to a bench and talking to Inoue who’s shaking her head, her arms folded across her chest. There’s a girl, a woman rather, sitting on the bench, a cooler wrapped with a bow next to her. Ichigo swallows. Five that you know of.

A shiver goes through him and he doubts it’s the cold wind.

“What happened here?” he asks when they reach the other two, the girl and the wrapped cooler.

Rukia speaks low and rough, “We’ve been running like maniacs to catch up with him, playing this game of his. We’ve been ten different places all over the city, this is the eleventh. We’ve so far found ten body parts, except the head.”

“We haven’t opened it yet. He specifically said, he should do it,” Chad says and nods to Ishida.

Ichigo must make a face, because Rukia holds a hand up, “We don’t know why either.”

Ishida puts on a pair of blue gloves and steps up to the cooler. With little to no ceremony, he pulls the bow apart and pushes the ribbon out of the way. He opens the cooler and lifts the lid. He stands completely still for a moment, then he turns and looks at them.

“It’s my old advisor from pre-law,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Ichigo frowns, “Your old advisor?”

“Yeah. He was a defense attorney, primarily dealt with Yakuza. He was one of the main reasons I quit.”

“He bullied you?” Rukia questions and peers into the cooler.

“No,” Ishida responds, and it feels heavy.

Ichigo looks from the cooler to Ishida. There’s something in his tone of voice that has Ichigo frowning at him and wondering if there’s any more to that story.

“And her?” Ichigo nods to the girl. She’s slumped, dressed in a dusty grey quilted coat, long, loose and tangled hair falling off her shoulder. It’s a strange turquoise color, contrasting the reds and oranges around them. In her hand’s a, by now, familiar rectangle. The tape’s almost falling out of her fingers.

Inoue bites her lower lip, “She has two puncture marks around her eyes.”

“What?”

Inoue shakes her head, “She’s been lobotomized.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Ichigo exclaims and sits down himself and tilts her head up. He stares into a pair of staring hazel eyes, devoid of any life or thoughts it seems. They remind Ichigo of a graveyard, unvisited and forgotten, nothing but the dead to occupy the grounds. Her cheeks are dusted pink and a scar runs down her forehead.

“She’s been lobotomized,” Inoue repeats.

Ichigo turns away, “Is this the freaking 1800s?” 

“Do we know who she is?” Ishida asks, faring better than Ichigo for sure. Rukia shakes her head. 

“Where’s that ambulance?” Inoue looks around, “It should’ve been here by now.” 

Ishida looks to her and then back to the woman. “So a head in a box and a lobotomized woman,” he states.

Ichigo shakes his head. 

The girl slowly looks up then and stares at him, her lips moving as if she’s trying to say something. It takes her three tries, but when she finally gets the word over her lips, she can’t stop saying it. She says it over and over again. 

“Itsygo.” 

“Itsygo.” 

“Itsygo.”

The bastardized version of his name’s the only thing in the air besides falling colors.

The ambulance still hasn’t arrived.


	4. Chapter 4

The hospital room is white and naked, much like these things usually are. Ichigo thinks you could step in to a hospital anywhere in the world, and it would be the same smell, the same lacquered floors, the same echo in the halls, the same despondency, the same anxiousness. Pain, it seems, is universal. There’s humming of equipment, a rough bedspread, a green quilted jacket hanging on a clothes tree by the door. 

Ichigo’s been hospitalized a few times. The linen had been washed and bleached so many times it has no smell and never would have any. It’s coarse and impersonal, and the food could kill you if you weren’t careful. 

Nel is sitting in bed, staring vacantly into the air, her mouth moving imperceptibly. She’s still saying his name, they still haven’t found out why. They found a “3” tattooed on her back, none of them knowing what that’s supposed to mean.

They’d found out her name was Nel. Or, it was the name she gave them when asked. Nel proved to be another mystery, because while she sported a name similar in weirdness to Szayel Aporro Granz or Nnoitra, she was obviously a victim.

Ichigo really wanted to know how these people got their names. If they pulled them straight out of their ass or if they drew 20 letters and had to make something from that. Ishida had said Granz had certain German characteristics, but Aporro was more on the Greek side of things. And the first names were anyone’s guess, really. God, Ichigo really wanted to know how they got their names.

Besides the lobotomy, Nel was fit as a fiddle. 

Ichigo’s sitting next to her bed, listening to her babble and mumble, he’s reminded of Yuzu and Karin when they were younger. A lot younger. It’s strange, but he feels as if she likes having him here. She doesn’t say his name as much when he’s here, but the nurses tell him that when he isn’t, she does little else but call out for him.

“What kind of name is Nel?” he asks her, quietly. He doesn’t expect an answer, because he isn’t going to get one. They’ve been trying for three days to get information from her, who did this to her, what the “3” on her back means. She’s only ever answered with “Nel” or “Itsygo” so they doubt she’s capable of saying much else. She’s the only live victim they have.

Ishida pointed out that maybe they aren’t meant to have any other than her. It’s not a comforting thought. 

Rukia has been unpiling Granz’ apartment, finding old schematics signed with Sato Jiro’s name and a card to Kurosawa Isamu, Ishida’s old advisor and defense attorney. Chad had suggested that the reason Granz hadn’t called him had been because he knew he was dead. Ishida had suggested it was because he was a conceited asshole. 

Keigo’d found the Trojan Horse within the hour. It had been buried deep, but Keigo with a trail is like a bloodhound. Mizuiro had come in with a cup of iced coffee for him the minute he’d found it and the result had been a drenched communications liaison and a very sorry technical analyst.

“Itsygo,” Nel sighs.

Ichigo nods, “Yep, I’m here.”

“Itsygo,” she repeats. She’s not exactly a sparkling conversationalist.

A nurse pokes her head through the door and gives him a quiet smile. He knows it means visiting hours are up. He gets to his feet and turns to Nel, “I’ll see you around, rascal.”

“Itsygo,” she replies and he nods.

“Itsygo indeed,” he agrees and picks up his jacket. The nurse walks him to the lobby, telling him about the scans and tests they’ve done on her so far and how optimistic the doctors are in regards to her recovery. Which is to say, not overly so. 

Ichigo says his goodbyes and steps outside. The cold has settled in around Tokyo and his breath leaves white smudges in the air. He keeps his hands in his pockets and crowds his shoulders around his neck. He hurries to the subway station and jumps on the first and best line there is. Luckily, the lateness of the hour makes it possible to stand without being suffocated or crushed.

He gets off at Saginomiya and walks the last few hundred meters to his apartment. 

Someone’s standing by the door. Ichigo recognizes the ridiculously expensive alpaca coat and a quiet smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. Ishida’s waiting outside, lips all but matching his eyes and his nose tipped the sweetest shade of red. 

“Hey,” Ichigo greets. Ishida steps away from the door as Ichigo unlocks it and holds it open for him. The other gets inside and rubs his hands together, breathing on them to get some warmth into his bones.

“How is she?” he asks as they walk up the stairs. 

Ichigo shakes his head, “No improvement. The doctors aren’t sure if they can help her at all.”

Ishida doesn’t say anything to this. They reach Ichigo’s apartment and he opens the door, happy that he was foresighted enough to turn on the heat this morning. The cold seeps in from the hallway and they both hurry inside to keep it from stealing too much of the rare commodity that heat is these days. 

Ishida hangs his coat and stretches his arms above his head. Ichigo watches the muscles running down his back and feels tired in a sort of self-pitying way.

His own are aching and he’s just exhausted. They get less and less sleep, their case finally making some headway. Ichigo never thought he’d say this, but he can barely manage gathering his thoughts about the case and how attractive he finds Ishida. He has to choose and seeing as he’s a selfless man, he spends his energy on the case.

The last few days, Organized Crime has been paying visits to them, asking them all kinds of question. Ichigo had sent Ishida a warning look, but the other had excused himself to go buy coffee or lunch or simply go to the bathroom every time they’d stopped by. The attention wasn’t mistakable. The arrest of Granz, the naming of Nnoitra and the finding of Nel had triggered their interest and even Rukia was beginning to doubt whether or not these questions were completely benign. Ichigo wouldn’t be surprised if he got a notice tomorrow that said the case had been transferred to Organized Crime, now that the involvement of the Yakuza were harder and harder to refute. The only thing so far keeping the case in their hands were the rules the perpetrator had set before this, their little game, began. 

Ishida had been gracious enough not to gloat. He hadn’t even mentioned it. 

Ichigo’s just tired. Too tired for thinking, for sex, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was too tired for sleeping.

“I’m not in the mood for sex,” he says as he hangs his scarf, the one Mizuiro and Keigo had given him. Ishida doesn’t even turn around, he just picks up the cat and sits down in the couch and turns on the TV. He turns the channel to Project Runway and pets the cat.

“I’ll stay,” Ishida answers, “In case you change your mind.”

They both know it’s not the real reason, but Ichigo appreciates it none the less. He lets himself drop into the couch and tangle his legs with Ishida’s.

They watch Project Runway and order take away, barely talking, barely thinking, all the while petting the cat, watching shit-TV and eating fried rice and Kung Pao chicken. 

 

Ichigo wakes up to a purring cat, rolling around the warm sheets under Ichigo arm. Ishida’s vacated the bed and is getting dressed. Ichigo sits up and watches him. Even the act of putting on clothes are enticing to Ichigo and he licks his lips. With a good night’s sleep he regains the ability to find Ishida attractive. 

Ishida must’ve heard him wake up, because he looks over his shoulder and smiles. He ties his a perfect Windsor and walks out into the bathroom. Sometimes Ichigo wonders how Ishida can afford to buy designer this and designer that, his salary as a probationary agent would be less than Ichigo’s and while he lives in a cheap apartment and only has a part-time cat, he can’t buy fantastic new clothes every month.

“How can you afford that?” Ichigo yawns as Ishida steps back outside, a toothbrush in his mouth, and buttoning his shirtsleeves.

He takes out the toothbrush, “Trust fund.”

“Trust fund?” 

“My family’s pretty well off. I inherited a sizable amount of money from my grandfather and my mother. Ryuu – my father didn’t want me to squander it all away, so he made a trust fund I couldn’t access before I came of age,” Ishida explains and shrugs on his jacket. “I could retire tomorrow and live comfortably on Hawaii for the rest of my days.”

“Sounds nice,” Ichigo says, a little envious of the monetary security Ishida enjoys.

Ishida shrugs, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Ichigo gets out of bed and stretches. The cat rolls onto his side, it being warmer and therefor more attractive. He makes his way to his closet and picks out a shirt and pants. Ishida’s off into the bathroom and spits out a mouthful of toothpaste. Ichigo puts on his clothes and joins Ishida, kissing him on the cheek before he can stop himself. He plays it off coolly and starts brushing his teeth.

Ishida blushes and hurries out, “Do you want coffee?”

“You know it doesn’t work.” Ichigo spits out and rinses his mouth, washing his hands and his face.

“A man can dream,” is the answer. “You need to get another coffee-machine!”

“We don’t all have a trust fund,” Ichigo calls back because, sure, he could buy another machine, but he likes this one. What he and Etsuko have is pure. It occurs to him that he named his coffee-machine and not his cat, part-time as it may be. 

“A coffee-machine isn’t that fucking expensive.”

Ichigo smiles and follows Ishida into the kitchen. The other’s looking through his fridge and Ichigo admires his enterprise, “Nothing’s happened since yesterday.”

Ishida shakes his head and closes the fridge, “How do you survive?”

“Will-power and granola bars,” he deadpans.

Ishida smiles and Ichigo sees, not for the first time, a dimple appear on his right cheek. Ishida only has one and it rarely shows unless he’s truly happy. Ichigo counts it as a win and looks at the time.

“We should go now,” he says and Ishida sighs in defeat.

“Probably,” he says and gives Ichigo a sideways glance. He looks almost bashful and Ichigo feels his stomach twisting and tying itself into Celtic knots. Suddenly, Ishida’s mouth ghosts his, a barely there, warm, gentle, expressive. It’s a kiss like Ichigo’s never had before and he feels himself leaning forward, chasing it, but Ishida’s already moving away.

“Come on, we have justice to do,” Ishida says and is holding the door for him. Ichigo steps into his shoes and puts on his jacket on the way down the stairs, much like Ishida’s buttoning his coat.

Outside, they share a last look before Ishida unlocks his bike and swings his leg over it and disappears into the Tokyo morning traffic. Ichigo worries that Ishida might be run over one of these days, but he’s seen the way Ishida maneuvers that thing and it’s almost akin to trick-riding. He hurries to the subway and is mushed into the train like everyone else and it’s in these moments he understands why Ishida has a bike.

 

“You’re late,” Ichigo remarks, without looking up from the autopsy report Inoue handed to him not five minutes ago. Ishida’s brushing past desks and coworkers, looking slightly tousled but otherwise impeccable, like he had this morning. He throws his bag onto his desk and takes off his coat.

“Have you started the briefing?” he asks and removes his scarf.

“Not yet.”

“Then I’m not late,” Ishida answers with an invisible smile and sits down in his chair.

“Now that we’re all here, maybe we can begin,” Rukia remarks, a little slyly. She seems to have the idea that he was reading Inoue’s autopsy report purely so he could stall the briefing. He doesn’t know why she’d think that.

Mizuiro lifts his eyebrow and Keigo’s completely oblivious, telling the other about some new internet sensation, a cat that looks grumpy all the time. He compares it to Ichigo and fully deserves the marker that’s hurled at his head. Inoue looks quickly between them, pursing her lips and frowning worriedly. The rest of them proceed as usual, Ishida doesn’t even make a face.

“Alright, what do we have?” he asks.

Rukia gets up and goes to the board.

“We searched Granz’ apartment and we found blueprints and schematics belonging to Sato Jiro. We’re still sorting through them, but they range from a building blocks in Shibuya to the intersection in Chiyoda by the Imperial Palace. We have Keigo going through his computers and all that and he’s unearthing all sorts of weird things. He has tons and tons of deleted email-correspondence with all of our victims except Sato Jiro. Keigo’s trying to restore them, but they’ve been virtually shredded,” Rukia tells them. Keigo nods mournfully. 

Chad picks up where she left off, “I have CSU going over the traces found in Yamada’s lab again. Granz said, he’s been trying to confuse us by adding other elements, so we must assume they’re making something. We can eliminate drugs, but we’re not entirely sure what it is then. The Botulin’s a dead end.”

“How about Nnoitra?” Ichigo asks and looks to Keigo.

“He’s a nasty piece of shit –“

Mizuiro coughs and Keigo corrects himself, “Nasty piece of work. I dug through layers and layers and layers of misinformation and police rapports mentioning a Nnoitra. But the age of miracles aren’t over, my friends, I found him. Now, same as with Szayel Aporro Granz, birth certificate reads Nnoitra Galga and this continues through his entire life. He’s out on parole, currently, but he hasn’t checked in with his officer, so he’s technically a wanted man.” 

“Mizuiro?” Ichigo says. 

Mizuiro nods, “Already informed the beat cops.”

Ichigo mirrors him and Keigo continues, “He’s been charged with manslaughter and violent crimes and it’s not his first time in the joint. We have his file here, somewhere.”

Ichigo leaves through the pile of files from the first week of the investigation and digs out one that’s been on his mind the last few weeks. He opens it and finds the picture that’s been returning to his thoughts a few times. Ichigo pulls out the picture and smacks it onto the board under the name “Nnoitra Galga”.

Keigo nods at him and smiles deviously, “And here’s the kicker, Galga’s been a part of several well-known Yakuza rings, many which operated out of – drum roll please - Shizuoka, but he went solo a year ago or so and formed his own family. He’s a kumicho in his own right, but we have no idea what gang he’s heading, if any. He doesn’t strike me as a person who makes friends.”

Rukia looks challenging at Ishida who only writes a few notes down on his phone and looks up, “What?”

“No ‘I told you so’?” she dares.

Ishida shrugs and snaps his phone shut. 

Ichigo taps the whiteboard marker to his lips and looks at Ishida, the other’s about to say something, but quiets when he sees the look in Ichigo’s eyes.

“Inoue, Keigo, what do you have on Nishimura and Kurosawa?” he asks them instead. 

Inoue gestures for Keigo to go first. “I’ll have the files by you this afternoon, but basically, he was the law, she was nurse, can I make it any more obvious?” he sings the last part and is rewarded with scattered laughter, an eye-roll from Ishida and a smack on the arm by Mizuiro, who adds, “Don’t drag Avril Lavigne into this.”

“Sorry,” Keigo smiles and goes serious again, “Anyways, Nishimura Shiori was 32 years old, a workaholic and single. She had no family, but a string of lovers, if her dating-profile’s anything to go by. She didn’t smoke, never drank and exercised weekly. She was reported missing two weeks ago by her colleagues.”

Ishida makes a face as Keigo introduces his former advisor, “He was 45 years old, worked in his own firm, had a terrible taste in clients. His latest was, and, ladies and gentlemen, the plot thickens, Nnoitra Galga.”

Ichigo casts a glance in Ishida’s direction and sees him pursing his lips. Ichigo understands him perfectly.

“We’re searching his office as we speaks. The warrant came through this morning. A lawyer’s lawyer is seriously the stuff of nightmares,” Rukia comments and shakes her head.

Keigo chuckles and gestures to Inoue, “The stage is yours.”

“Nishimura Shiori was shot in the head, point blank, execution style. The hole in her chest was made post mortem and she’d been at the opera for at least a week, if not more when we found her. She was killed there, but there’s no evidence left behind. Kurosawa Isamu was killed while kneeling, shot through the top of his head. The hole was made post mortem as well. His dismemberment also happened post mortem. He too has been dead for about a week.”

“I’ve asked before, and I’ll ask again: What does a parking guard, a city planner, a mechanic, a chemistry student, a nurse and a lawyer have to do with each other? He wouldn’t choose victims at random, they mean something,” Rukia asks and none of them answers. 

Ishida tips back his chair and balances it on two legs, “Maybe the last riddle will be about that.”

“Could be. Find out what these people have in common and save the last?”

“Perhaps.” Ishida glances to the board and to Ichigo. They share a brief look, but Ichigo almost feels his heart speed up because of it. He sees Ishida swallow and he licks his lip.

Ichigo nods, “And the tape?”

Chad finds his computer and hands Ichigo a printed copy of the transcript. He presses play and they all still.

“We’re nearing the end of our little adventure. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. Well, no time like the present as they say,” he chuckles and it sends shivers down Ichigo’s spine.

“We’re back to the start. They’ve been ripped and thrown away. So here’s to you, boss. I know, I know, it’s not my most elegant verse, but I dare say it’ll suffice. Considering how long you took when I was artful, I suppose this is preferable.”

The tape ends and Ichigo rubs his hands over his face. He’s beginning to tire of this game. 

When they all scatter to continue their different venues of investigation, Ichigo thinks to himself, they all seem to have forgotten how good it feels to have actual leads. 

 

The day passes slowly. They’re back doing police-work of the genuine kind, not this jumping-through-hoops kind. Ichigo feels like he’s finally making the headway he promised the commissioner. 

When Ichigo has a direction, he doesn’t like wasting time. Even though the day passes slowly, he gets work done. He writes the preliminary of the case, does the notes and directs the others, captaining this shitboat of a case with the amount of professionalism he’s missed these last weeks. It’s like he’s finally listening to his jam and dancing to a beat he knows.

He caught Ishida and Rukia talking in the breakroom.

He doesn’t know what about and he doesn’t want to pry. It seems amicable enough, neither of their body languages tense or defensive. So instead he waits five minutes for them to finish and then goes for the cup of coffee he’s started to need.

Ichigo leaves to office at 8pm and it feels normal. Except he won’t be going home to an empty apartment, he’ll be alone for an hour or two, maybe, but then Ishida will come. He catches himself smiling on the train and feels, for the first time that he might actually catch this son of a bitch, because they have actual clues, actual suspects, actual leads, not just what some maniac on the other end of a phone-line decides for them to have. It’s liberating in a way he’d forgotten hope could be. 

Ishida comes around 8:30pm. He’s bought groceries and starts filling Ichigo’s fridge, greeting him with a simple kiss to his cheeks and Ichigo melts a little. He draws up a chair and while Ishida prepares a late dinner, they talk about everything from police-work and the riddle, to what Ishida’s cooking to the Dior fall collection.

“It sounds like Jack the Ripper to me,” he says as he’s chopping vegetables with an almost lethal precision. 

“That doesn’t really tell us much,” Ichigo answers and snatch a piece of carrot, receiving a withering look from Ishida, which he reciprocates with a smile. He’s found that Ishida’s face is layer upon layer of things he wants to say and what he doesn’t want people to know. 

“The Ripper threw away his victims like trash. And considering the first line, I think the harbor would be a good place to start.”

Ichigo stretches, “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” Ishida says and slides the chopped carrots and celery into the pot. He gives it a stir and tastes the broth he’s made so far. He licks his lips, and Ichigo sucks in a breath, and adjusts the timer.

He looks straight up at Ichigo, eyes brilliant and teasing.

“We have about 40 minutes to spare,” he says and smiles.

Ichigo nods, “I think we could find something useful to do in that time.”

They don’t make it anywhere near a vertical surface. Ichigo lifts Ishida up on the counter and stands between his legs, kissing him and running his hands from his thighs to his sides, smiling in between kisses. Ishida hums against his lips and keeps his hands in Ichigo’s hair, grabbing it when Ichigo bites his lower lip. He sighs against him and they begin moving together.

The 40 minutes pass quickly. 

They eat their soup naked in the couch, draped in blankets watching Project Runway on Ishida’s behest and Ichigo can’t remember being happier.

 

“So what’s the emergency?” Ichigo asks when he enters the Batcave, as Keigo conspiratorially calls his office. To his credit, it’s dark and much like a grotto illuminated by about ten or twenty different screens. Mizuiro always turns on the light whenever he comes in here and Keigo usually hisses dramatically. Ichigo dares not do the same, he doesn’t exactly have the same standing as Mizuiro, though he bloody ought to.

He’s watched Zeitgeist and it’s sequel so many times he could quote it ad nauseum, Keigo always begging for them to see it whenever they have the time because he doesn’t have a Netflix account, at least not a legal one.

Ichigo once asked why he didn’t watch it on his own time, and Keigo’d answered that getting revelations and getting indignant by yourself wasn’t nearly as fun as with a friend. When they watch it, Keigo mouths along and sometimes mutters, “Fuck yeah!” when he thinks the speaker is particularly on point. For a film about conspiracy theories, Ichigo’s surprised how much he agrees with what they’re saying. He’s been brainwashed, he realizes and sighs when Keigo turns to him, expecting a smile, but gets a troubled frown instead.

Ichigo’s face falls.

“It’s about Ishida,” he says. “Or, it’s about Kurosawa, but in relation with Ishida.”

Ichigo doesn’t answer. Ishida, Rukia and Chad are by the harbor, investigating the riddle, hoping that for once they don’t have to sit on their hands a week before they find their victims.

“What about them?” he asks finally and sits down in the other chair. Keigo leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

“First off, Kurosawa wasn’t Ishida’s advisor. Ishida interned with him.”

Ichigo only notices the: first off. “What else?”

“When did Ishida quit the Vampire Academy?” Keigo asks and Ichigo must admire how he sticks to his opinions about certain institutions even when he’s being dead serious. When it had become common knowledge that Ishida had attended law-school, Keigo acted as if Mizuiro had turned the light on in his Batcave around him, close, but not quite doing it, baring his teeth. Ishida had repaid him with these looks of utter incredulity that would have made a lesser man feel stupid by proximity. Keigo’d withstood that glare and that spoke more about Keigo’s character than Ishida’s.

Ichigo shrugs, “The Academy takes 21 months and if this is his first probationary, then my guess would be almost two years?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Why?”

Keigo looks troubled, “Ishida called him two weeks ago.”

“What?” Ichigo rubs his eyes and looks up, “Come again?”

“Ishida called him two weeks ago. At least the phone registered in his name did. They spoke for about 20 minutes, then Kurosawa called back about fifteen minutes later and they spoke for another 20 minutes.”

The first thought through Ichigo’s head is, Ishida doesn’t even like the guy! His distaste for the man had been plain for everyone to see. Then it strikes him, and it almost feels as if the entire world falls onto his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Keigo says when he sees Ichigo arrive at his conclusion, “I’m glad my math isn’t the only one saying Ishida’s one of the last people to have spoken to Kurosawa. At least telephonetically.”

Ichigo folds his hands behind his head and sighs. “We’re going to have to investigate this.”

“Yep,” Keigo agrees, not sounding all too happy about it.

“Do what you do, but be discreet,” Ichigo gets up, “I mean it, not even Mizuiro can know.”

Keigo salutes him and that’s as good as anything.

It’s not lost on him how Keigo’s dragged up every point of insecurity in regards to this, but Ichigo knows better than to doubt Keigo’s results. If he says Ishida spoke with Kurosawa, he most likely did. 

Ichigo retreats to his desk and opens his file on Kurosawa Isamu. He’d been notorious for only taking on clients of the Yakuza persuasion, oftentimes winning cases doomed to failure because he’d garnered the respect of his clientele and could thusly lead the prosecution on a merry chase in court, confusing them with witness statements and clever oratory. One judge had called him a modern day Cicero.

He reads about some of the cases he’s handled over the years. There’s everything from drug-trafficking to homicide and Ichigo wonders how he can represent these people again and again and then he remembers the expression Ishida had made when he’d opened the cooler. It’d been carefully blank, but behind the mask Ichigo could’ve sworn he saw something like vindictiveness. 

Kurosawa Isamu was the kind of man who made enemies and seduced his friends. He was the kind of man who tricked and conned his way through every trial. He was the best at what he did and maybe that’s why Ishida had interned with him. Ichigo had to reread the line three times before the shoe dropped. Ishida had worked for him, had helped him write up cases and had been sleeping in Tokyo’s underbelly while doing it. 

A checked line underneath states that Kurosawa himself had been involved with a drug-charge – heroin – a few years back. Being a lawyer he’d smoothed it out before anyone even realized there was a wrinkle, but as far as Ichigo could understand from the write-up, Kurosawa’s office had been ransacked and a few of his people arrested for complicity, possession and what not. It was around the time Ishida had dropped out of pre-law.

Ichigo wonders how many of Ishida’s ethical standards have been revised during his stay there. 

The elevator pings open and Chad and Rukia steps out of it, Rukia shaking her head.

“A little reprise of Kurosawa’s murder,” Rukia says and she flings her jacket onto Ichigo’s desk-lamp and dumps down in the chair they’d brought up for her, “He’s fitted two people, two mutilated and dismembered people, into a black trash bag and dumped them in the harbor. He’s a sick, Ichigo. I didn’t think it could get much worse than this, but apparently I was wrong.”

Chad puts a hand on her shoulder and lends her some of that immeasurably strength he always seems to carry. “Inoue’s sorting them out now.”

“Because, and you guessed it, they’re shuffled about as well like a bag of fucking trail mix!”

“Ishida’s helping her,” Chad adds.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asks her and she nods. Ichigo gets up and exchange a look with Chad while doing it. This case is draining Rukia far more than her own ever did. Ichigo wonders why. It’s clear to see that it’s chipping away at her. 

He stands in front of the coffee-machine, pausing, because he can’t operate this worth shit. He remembers there’s a cart in front of the Keishicho and he hurries downstairs. If anyone’s deserving of a frappe-latte with whipped cream and syrup, pumpkin spice and everything nice, it’s Rukia. 

He buys her the most expensive coffee he possibly can and hurries upstairs with it, so it doesn’t lose too much of it’s warmth. 

Stepping into the bullpen, he’s hit with how humid and disgustingly hot it is in here still. The city might have passed through the ire of the skies, but this office certainly hasn’t. it’s still acting as if it’s September and a thunderstorm’s due any minute.

Chad’s left, presumably for the morgue.

He hands Rukia the cup and watch her eyes light and her smile widen fractionally. 

“Thanks,” she says and takes a reverent sip of it, “You shouldn’t have though.”

“Because the time it took me to run downstairs and buy you that coffee, versus me waiting for someone to come along who actually knows how to operate our residential coffee-provider is eons from each other,” he quips and settles back into his chair.

Rukia chuckles and wipes her eyes, “This is nice.”

“It better be, it cost me 8.000 Yen.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, but smiles at his joke anyways, because she’s a better friend than he deserves really.

“What did you mean then?” he asks and leans forward.

Rukia shrugs, “We haven’t talked in like, two weeks.” 

She takes a sip of her coffee and Ichigo reaches out to knock her knee.

“What’re you doing tomorrow night?” He lifts his eyebrow and looks at the cream swirling around in the clear plastic cup, her name misspelled on the side of it. Maybe that’s how their merry band of Yakuza wannabes and victim got their names. They went to Starbucks and just rolled with whatever the barista thought they heard.

“Working myself silly, probably,” she sighs and rolls the cup between her hands.

Ichigo frowns, “Shit, your boss is horrible!”

“You don’t say.”

He claps his hands on his thighs and announces, “Tomorrow, we’re drinking ourselves stupid and then we’re going to talk shit about the commissioner, your brother, the new government, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, or boys, whatever we feel like and then we’ll meet for work an hour later than normal, wearing sunglasses inside and we’ll pretend we’re the Blues Brothers on a mission from God and then we’re going to kick ass and take names until we find this sick son of a bitch who drills holes in people’s chests for fun and spit roast him over a fire, how about that?”

Rukia’s grinning, her voice rasping like she’s been crying, “I’d like that very much.”

“It’s a date then,” he smiles. Before he made lieutenant, they did this on a weekly basis. At first it was just the two of them getting pissed in Ichigo’s apartment, then Kumiko joined them, though less and less towards the end of that relationship. She was replaced by Keigo and Mizuiro, who brought Chad one night and then they invited Inoue and Tatsuki and suddenly they were an entire group of young adults getting pissed a Thursday night, shit-talking the world while dreaming of a better tomorrow and reaching their hands drunkenly to the window, seeing their outstretched hands contrasted by the universe.

“Careful, Ishida shouldn’t get the wrong idea,” she says, the double entendre almost too vulgar.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he brushes her off and leans back then. He grins at her and she shakes her head, drinking again. She then points to him, “Drop the act, Kurosaki. I know what’s going on behind my back.”

Ichigo can’t help but chuckle, because he doesn’t even know what’s going on there, but he’d like to see her try and explain it.

“One dame with class walks through the doors and I’m tossed aside like a pack of empty smokes,” she laments and raises a hand to her forehead.

“I doubt he would appreciate being called a dame,” Ichigo comments dryly.

“Broad then.”

“That’s not better at all. Dame was at least somewhat flattering.”

“Damn, I keep forgetting you crack crossword puzzles like a champ,” she says, thinking then. And while Ichigo shoots down whatever suggestions she offers up, more and more intriguing suggestions granted, he forgets that he’s just ordered an investigation on the dame in question. He hopes there’s a reasonable explanation.

He hopes there’s an explanation.

God, he hopes there’s an explanation.

 

“Where I grew up?” Ishida repeats and leans back against the radiator. He just settled down after a post-coital smoke, as he likes to call them. Oddly, he says it with a hoarse voice that does things to Ichigo’s dick, like he’s used to saying it in unsolicitous company, “Nothing celebrates a good fuck like a cigarette, Kurosaki, trust me.”

And Ichigo really wants to, he really does.

He nods and strokes the cat. She’d sauntered in here the minute Ishida got up, making herself comfortable in the vacated sheets. Ichigo had picked her up when Ishida returned. The cat had continued purring and settled for his lap instead. 

“Don’t read into it,” he warns, “but I grew up in Shizuoka.”

Ichigo’s heart almost stops beating right then and there. He can’t help it, he reads into it. He forces himself to shut up and continue this rather intimate vis-à-vis interrogation. He feels slightly guilty for doing it, but at the same time, he can’t keep sleeping around with him if it suddenly turns out he’s hiding something in connection with this investigation.

“Shizuoka?” Ichigo repeats artfully, hoping for elaboration.

“We moved to Omotesando –“

“Holy shit,” Ichigo interrupts. Pretty well off isn’t filthy rich, though it would explain Ishida’s rather exclusive taste in clothes, “Goddamn fashion district?”

Ishida has the good grace to shrug, the prick, and continue, “We moved there when I was seven, I’m sorry, should I have said Tokyo?” Noticing Ichigo’s rather flabbergasted state of mind, he breaks off mid-sentence and stares.

“Fucking Omotesando,” Ichigo mutters.

“We don’t live there anymore, if it helps,” he says, petulant and Ichigo feels his heart swell with affection and then curl and cringe with suspicion. The mercury streetlights are coming in from behind, keeping Ishida’s face obscured by the night. Ichigo suddenly misses that bus ride to Kyoto, where there was stars as far as the eyes could see.

“I don’t think I wanna know,” Ichigo says and shakes his head, which in turn sparks this weird mischievous fire in Ishida’s eyes. “Why don’t you guess?”

“Oh, come on,” Ichigo protests, but it turns out Ishida’s perfectly serious. He’ll go down the list, start from the top, hope it’s somewhere around there. “Fine. Uhm, Aoyama-Itchome?”

The smirk on Ishida’s face tells him he hit the nail on the head and he lets his head fall back in disbelief, “Fucking Aoyama-Itchome?”

“You can with good authority say I’m probably the most expensive piece of ass you’ll ever have,” Ishida chuckles, a fleeting sense of self-deprecation filtering in. Ichigo would love to say something reassuring then, something akin to taking his hand and pressing it to his chest and let him feel his heart racing, asking him, who he thinks does that to him? He can’t though, he can’t move because he’s constantly reminded that Keigo’s been digging into Ishida’s life all day.

“I’m born and bred Edokko, I have every right to cringe when say you moved to Omotesando, my family can barely afford passing through Omotesando, not to mention live there,” he manages to say, a strange distance, even to his own ears. Ishida picks up on it, of course he does. 

Silence passes between them like a ghost from the past and Ichigo can’t help but feel a little duped, “Pretty well off.”

“Why does it matter this much to you?” Ishida sounds sharp, bordering on disgusted, toeing the line with angry. He’s come to the wrong conclusion as to why Ichigo’s put off, it would seem. He’s not sure what he would prefer, honestly. That Ishida knows he knows he’s low-key interrogating him or that he’s so petty as to judge him on the amount of money his family has at its disposal.

Ichigo turns his upper-body towards Ishida, who’s looking away from him arms crossed, “I just don’t understand why you’d choose to be a cop. You have the opportunity to do whatever you want –“

“Maybe being a productive member of society is what I want.” Ishida turns to him, “Just because I’m not motivated by something as primal as money, doesn’t mean my intentions can’t be better than most of those who actually do work there. I may not have an obligation to make money; I do have an obligation to myself and my family though.”

Something strikes Ichigo then. 

Carefully, he says, “Speaking off, how did you become rich enough to live in Aoyama-Itchome on a cop salary?”

“We didn’t,” Ishida rolls his eyes and Ichigo wants to smack him.

He takes breath, “You said it was the family business.”

“I know what I said.” Ishida smiles condescendingly.

Ichigo shakes his head and hands him the cat. He gets out of bed and goes into the living room. He walks to the window on the eastside of his apartment and leans against the window frame, watching the city. Sometimes, he wishes for the days where Ishida wasn’t holding back crucial information. Wait, yesterday, that’s what he’s thinking off.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Ishida says from the door to the bedroom. 

Ichigo licks his lips, “We’re at a stalemate then.”

Ishida doesn’t answer, doesn’t move either. The cars outside are chasing the night, leaving red and orange streaks in the air, streamers after their lights. Ichigo wonders where they’re going, if they even realize that he’s watching them, that their paths crossed for less than a minute on a Wednesday night.

“I meant to ask you, when were you going to tell us you interned with Kurosawa?” Ichigo knows it’s a rather low blow, but he also needs to know.

He can almost feel Ishida freeze from across the room.

“Preferably never,” Ishida mutters and Ichigo looks over his shoulder. Ishida’s clutching his arms to his chest and is standing on his left foot, trying to preserve some warmth for the right. He looks a shade of miserable and tired then, as if the lights at the precinct could finally cast the shadows they ought to.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ichigo tries sounding neutral, but ends up sounding skeptical.

“It means that I’m ashamed of even been associated with a piece of shit like Kurosawa and I don’t particularly like to be reminded of it. The things I saw him do, what he had us do, I just … I like to think of it as penance.”

Ichigo has turned fully now, considering Ishida as he’s standing in the door, shifting from foot to foot to keep the cold from his toes and the arms guarding his heart. He just looks so young, standing there, holding himself and arguing a moot point.

“When was the last time you spoke with him?” he asks quietly then. It’s far too direct, he knows, but he has a feeling that asking with cloak and shadows would antagonize Ishida further.

There’s a beat and in that, Ichigo swear he sees Ishida calculating his next move, but a blink and it’s gone and Ichigo’s suddenly not sure if he saw what he wanted to see, when Ishida looks down, “Two weeks ago.”

“What did you talk about?” he tries holding his ground, but he can feel the fight going out of him.

“I called to get his opinion on the case,” he answers ruefully.

Ichigo takes that back, fight has returned, “You did what?”

“I didn’t tell him any details Mizuiro wasn’t giving the press already, I’m not stupid,” his eyes meets Ichigo’s challenging him to oppose him, but casts them down again as he continues, “He knows the underground like it’s nobody’s business and I thought he might help us as to who would do something like this.”

“Did he?” Ichigo inquires and loosens his death grip across his chest.

“No,” Ishida doesn’t move, “He said he couldn’t discuss his clients with me. Then he called me back and told me I should stay out of it.”

“For 20 minutes?” Ichigo can’t help but ask, pointedly.

Ishida makes a face, “Yes, for 20 minutes!”

Something about his stance has Ichigo pause before continuing this line of questioning. He decides to change tactics, because Ishida’s still impossible and breathtaking and Ichigo is so, so ass over tits for the bastard. He shakes his head, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ishida looks to his right then and the cat appears in the door as well, pushing herself against his legs.

“Because I’d broken protocol and I didn’t want to be benched again,” he admits.

To say Ichigo’s relieved would be an understatement. He crosses the room and comes to stand in front of Ishida and looks him in the eye, “Next time you do something like that and forget to tell me, you’ll be suspended.”

“I understand,” Ishida stares at his navel and steadfastly ignores the cat that’s still stepping in and out between his legs.

“Good. You had me worried.” It’s soft, like fabric sliding against skin or a sigh in May.

Ishida looks up at that and meets his eyes. They’re completely black in this light or lack thereof. Ichigo’s feet are freezing and a quick assessment makes it obvious Ishida’s shivering.

“I’m sorry,” Ishida mumbles.

“Idiot,” Ichigo says and tips his head back and kisses him. Ishida unwraps his arms and slides them around the back of Ichigo’s neck. They fall into bed, kissing and breathing together, all the while Ichigo’s heart’s fluttering and his shoulders unburdened by the world.

 

They’ve spent all morning trying to sort through Nnoitra Galga’s known and suspected accomplishes. Ichigo, Ishida and Rukia, aided by Mizuiro when his phone allows, which is never, open and closed over a 100 files between them, reading and assessing them. 

Ishida’s tipping his chair back and frowning, reading a few lines before he decidedly throws it on either on the he’s-batshit-insane-that’s-definitely-one-of-Galga’s-friends pile or this-one’s-an-asshole-but-not-one-of-Galga’s-friends pile, named so with the help of Keigo who’d stopped by with coffee and donuts. He’d exchanged a quick glance with Ichigo who’d shaken his head. 

Ishida had foregone the donuts, but had gladly taken the coffee as he threw another file into the yes-pile, because he’d proved himself to be the only adult in their group and hadn’t accepted Keigo’s names. Ichigo didn’t know if he should worried or impressed at the speed which Ishida went through his files. It seemed more as if he read the name and skimmed the first paragraph before he made up his mind about them.

Chad’s off working with the tape that had been soaked and unspooled when they found it. Whatever it is, it seemed that the game isn’t over quite yet. Ichigo’s dreading what else he has in store for them. 

“Inoue told me to tell you that she’s done assembling the bodies,” Mizuiro announces without looking up from his phone. This is what lets Ichigo out of sorting through inhabitants from planet psycho. Rukia sends him an envious glance.

She’s cornered him this morning, asking him if they were still on for tonight, to which Ichigo had looked offended.

Down in the morgue, Inoue’s playing The Lark Ascending which explains the grim expression on her face. She only plays it when she needs the sound of a bird in flight, far away from the morgue she haunts.

“There you are,” she says and beams at him. There’s one of the things he will never ever feel worthy of and that’s the way Inoue will light up whenever she sees him. Even though she’s with Shun and she’s over him in every way, she still has this almost overwhelming belief in him. Sometimes Ichigo doesn’t know whether she knows how much he needs her. In his darkest hours, it was always Inoue who got him through, because she’s a child of light and is made for guiding the way.

Inoue can actually make him believe he can conquer the world, if only he tried.

“What have you got for me?” he asks and smiles at her. It comes easier these days, granted, that’s Ishida’s doing. While Inoue will get him through any valley of death, Ishida makes him want to continue pushing forward when he reaches the end of it, as opposed to looking over his shoulder and fight back tears.

“I’ve pieced together our two victims and send their prints through AFIS and send the names to Keigo. Here’s what I can tell you. They were killed by two different offenders. I know this, because one of them was shot at an angle that would suggest the killer was about 6’5’’ and the other was impaled, yes impaled with something long and cylindrical, at an angle that suggest an offender at about 5’6’’.”

She walks around the table and lets Ichigo look upon the dead. One of them, a male, seems to have been sliced a million times, he’s frayed with lines, all of them seeming to spread from the whole in his chest. The other, a female, has a hole through her neck, her solar plexus and her belly. They’ve been stitched back together and Ichigo notes they’ve been parted in about a hundred pieces between them.

“The holes?”

“The man’s was anti-mortem, the woman’s, post-mortem.”

“How long have they been dead?” Ichigo asks and watches their expressionless faces. 

Inoue pushes a few strand behind her ear and says, “A few days. It’s hard to say. The water’s destroyed most of the physical evidence.”

“I thought they were in a bag?”

“They were; it wasn’t properly tied.” 

Ichigo rubs his forehead and they share a glance. Inoue gives him a soft smile then and goes to stand next to him. They stand there, listening to The Lark Ascending, almost holding a wake for the two dead. 

“I heard you are going out with Rukia tonight,” she says and smiles at him. 

He nods, “Yeah. This case is getting to her.”

Inoue doesn’t say anything, but he can tell she agrees. Inoue’s one of those people who never wants anything evil to happen to anyone. While Ichigo fights it, she prays for good and tries to help her friends as much as possible. She was never really much of a fighter, she’s the only reason they rest of them still can, though. She heals whatever wounds the world inflicts on them, reminds them of the bright and happy days and makes them fight for those.

“How’re you holding up?” he asks.

She smiles wide then, “I’m alright. Shun’s back.”

And really, the world would fall the day that didn’t meant she was in good hands. Shun has a degree in psychology, has his own practice and more clients he could ask for. People are comfortable around him and his quiet smiles, because if anyone knows how to talk about the problem without ever mentioning it, it’s Shun. Ichigo once spent and evening in his company where they talked about Dungeons and Dragons and suddenly Shun was telling him the best way to cope with losing a loved one. He’s scarily good at what he does. Ichigo’s convinced he and Mizuiro could have negotiated a peace-treaty between America and the Soviet Union at the height of the Cold War. 

“Have you deleted you dating-profile?” she questions, all innocence and big, grey eyes.

“Did everybody but me know?”

“Tatsuki-chan, Kuchiki-san and I made it,” and her smile is sweet as honey, but he can tell she’s deadly serious. “It was a lot of fun.”

“I’m sure.”

“So have you?”

Ichigo meets her eyes and shakes his head, “I’d forgotten I had it.”

“Because of Ishida-san?” she asks slyly, a little pink dusting her cheeks. “You’re smiling more.”

“I will neither deny nor confirm these scandalous rumors,” he says, but he can tell she already knows. He wonders how many of his friends have caught on and how many of them genuinely believe he’s watching Ishida with anything other than purely heterosexual and platonic intentions.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 

“What did Inoue say?” Rukia asks when he returns. He can tell she’s onto him. He’d stayed with Inoue another 15 minutes talking about whatever. She had indulged him, both of them needing a break. Ichigo more so because he didn’t want to return to the mountain of unpleasant types that had accumulated on his desk.

“Another two offenders. Keigo’ll bring us the victims’ files within the hour.”

He’d swung his way past the Batcave and told him about the conversation he’d had with Ishida yesterday. He failed to mention it’d happened while they were butt-naked after a toe-curling round of sex, he left that part out, but it didn’t seem as if Keigo thought he was missing context. They’d decided to shelve the digging for now, but he was to save the files in case it was necessary.

For once, Ichigo pulls rank and decides to sit on his desk and watch the two others go through the remaining files. They chat, banter and theorize while they do it and Ichigo finds that he loves the sound of Ishida’s laugh mixing with Rukia’s, there’s something incredibly vivacious about that combination.

“Ichigo!” Chad calls and they halt their conversation. Ichigo looks up and sees Chad hurrying towards him. He rarely if ever see Chad out of sorts, has never seen him panic unless you count that one times his parakeet flew out the window and came back the next day. He’s as good as storming towards them and Ichigo gets a tight feeling in his stomach.

“Chad?” he says and straightens his back.

Chad’s carrying his laptop, which usually means one thing only.

“Do you have the transcript?”

“I figured you’d rather hear it now and then have the transcript.” And that reply has Ichigo freeze.

“Is it bad?”

“Unsettling, rather,” Chad answers shortly.

Rukia looks up from where she’s been sitting on the floor and exchanges a look with Ichigo. Ishida throws a file into the he’s-batshit-insane-that’s-definitely-one-of-Galga’s-friends-pile. He doesn’t pick up another.

Chad opens his laptop and wastes no time in pulling up the file and pressing play.

“Only one more to go,” the voice drawls, smooth as silk, “I dare say we’ve all been waiting for this finale.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, dirtbag,” Ichigo hears Ishida mutter and he huffs a laugh.

“I know we’ve had our differences, our spats, but Kurosaki, you must admit this brought something unsuspected in its wake. Don’t you know yourself better now? Don’t you feel … stronger now?”

Ichigo has to admit he doesn’t. He feels tired, but that’s about it. Oh yeah, and angry.

“I suppose I tend to grow sentimental here on this, my last missive to you. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I’ve enjoyed this last month and how much I hope I’ve made a lasting impression,” there’s a low chuckle, almost alluring, “Initially, there was only supposed to be nine of them. Funny isn’t it, how plans change?”

Ichigo pauses the tape, “Nine?”

“Nel?” Ishida suggests and Rukia nods.

“That would mean she’s a mistake,” Ichigo says and looks between them. 

Chad presses play again, just as Ichigo’s about to leave for the holding cells and haul Granz from there into interrogation again. He thinks about calling Renji and have him give it another go, this time from another angle. They can’t send Ishida back in, Granz’ll be too aggressive from the get go – 

“Well, all good things must come to an end, don’t you agree? You have one week left and then we go out with a bang. So I’ll give you the last of my verses. Here’s the first, and excuse the quality, my technician was indisposed half-way through making it.”

“Granz,” Rukia says and they nod.

Suddenly, in Ichigo, Rukia, Chad, Mizuiro, Keigo, Inoue and Ishida’s voices, it says, “Trust me on this, boy. There’s a snake in your bed. 5341-092-24531.”

They all freeze and stare at the screen. It’s a different voice for every word, their voices, making it chopped and arrhythmic, but a shiver runs down Ichigo’s spine none the less.

“And here’s the last you’ll hear from me,” the man laughs and transitions into the same patchwork of their voices as before, “Riddle me this, friend. Who’s next, indeed, the boy with. The dragon tattoo.”

There’s a beat, a bead of sweat rolling down Ichigo’s temple, a beep from the tape to mark its end.

“What. Was that?” he asks and looks to them. Ishida’s pale, more so than usual, something got to him on that tape. Probably hearing his own voice woven into a haiku that declares that the game’s entering it’s final stages. Ichigo can’t say he isn’t relieved when the voice said this would be the last communique. It also starts a ticking clock. After this game ends, the chances are that the case will go cold if they don’t catch him within 48 hours.

“How did he get our voices?” Ichigo asks and looks directly at Chad. He hadn’t been wrong, defining the word bad was key in this. 

“My guess is that he’s been tapping our phones. If he’s been able to register every keystroke Keigo made, I’d say it’s within the realm of possibility that he’s done the same to our phones.”

“I remember the conversation about the snakes, with Keigo. But, that was over two months ago,” Rukia chips in. “Has he been monitoring our phones that long?”

“He was on there,” Ichigo points to Ishida who looks somewhat perplexed by the finger being shoved in his direction. “Was Ishida added later then or did he know that he’d end up in this unit? How would he know that? I didn’t even know it until we found Sato Hikaru nailed to a container.”

“I knew,” Ishida says, a strange stiffness in his voice and posture.

Ichigo turns to him. “How?” he demands.

“You apply for internship three months prior. I’ve known I was coming here since June.”

“Who has access to these lists?” Ichigo asks and sees Chad turn his computer around and typing lightning fast. 

“It’s not classified information, if you want to know, you can look it up. You signed a contract?” Chad asks and Ishida nods, “So lawyers and administration, whoever approved the employment, contact person and unit chief, responsible officer … Ichigo, it won’t narrow the suspect pool.”

Ichigo presses his lips together.

“Keep looking into it. Have Keigo see who’s looked at Ishida’s files and have him run that number sequence.”

Chad nods and starts typing again. They finally have a clue that they can use for identifying the last and final victim. Ichigo swallows and thinks.

“Rukia,” she looks up at him, “We register Yakuza tattoos when they go to prison, yeah?” 

She nods already gathering the files from the floor and tossing them onto Ishida’s desk, “On it.”

“Don’t bother with anybody above the age of 35. He said boy.”

“It could be a play on The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” Rukia pauses and bits her lip, “It’s your favorite book.”

Ichigo shakes his head, “Not anymore it isn’t.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says and heads towards Organized Crime and their databases.

Ishida hasn’t moved. Ichigo starts towards the doors, intending on going to find and question Granz.

“Ishida?” Ichigo snaps and he startles, looking like a deer caught in the headlight. 

“Find out how he knows my favorite book.”

 

Today had been the worst day on this case so far, and there’d been plenty, Ichigo’d say.

The prison tattoos had not paid off. Oh, there were plenty of felons with dragon tattoos, few of them under the age of 35 and most of them still incarcerated. Problem was that there were too many. If they were to guard these people around the clock, they’d need a good deal more manpower and there was only so much Organized Crime would agree to. Besides, the chances of their victim being a Yakuza was slim. It was Ichigo’s luck that Ukitake liked him, otherwise Rukia would soon be going back to the fold. He’s pretty sure she’s the only reason the case hasn’t been transferred by now, rules or no.

Ishida hadn’t pulled through, Rukia had. 

“We put it on your dating profile,” she’d said and sounded regretful.

Chad hadn’t found any other than police personnel looking into Ishida’s file. Ichigo had looked at Rukia, buried deep in her computer, and felt a distinct shiver running down his spine.

Keigo had found out the number sequence was a police-report. Bad news was that it hadn’t been digitized under the same number because of reorganization, so Keigo was currently buried in old procedures, trying to figure out how the old archiving system worked and how it would be translated today. They could conclude the file was old, at least 15 years or so. Ichigo’d sent Ishida to go look in the archives and he’d come back empty handed, shaking his head.

The two victims were called Tanaka Shichiro and Fujioka Hiroko. He’d been a car salesman and she an accountant. Keigo’d dug deep with these two and found that while Tanaka was clean as a whistle, Fujioka was under investigation for money laundering. White Collar crime usually meant paper-trails and if there was anything Keigo followed better, it was those. He’d been in contact throughout the day with Matsumoto Rangiku, exchanging details between them. 

Tanaka had lived to be 37 years old and had sold Hyundai and Suzuki for a living. He’d been made partner five years ago when his predecessor had taken his own life at the height of the financial crisis. Tanaka had fought tooth and nail and had managed to make it to the other side and finally his business was picking up again. He had a girlfriend and a dog, they’d been together for almost 13 years and neither of them seemed keen on getting married. She was infertile and so they’d been looking into adopting, but not before the wind had changed for Tanaka’s car business. He seemed like a decent person, gave money to charity, tipped generously and drove responsibly.

Fujioka had been a 59 year old lady, a bad hip and a prim, lonely apartment downtown. She’d spent her youth bouncing from city to city, country to country, had lived the highlife but suddenly she crashed and burned, tied down by debt because of a storming romance gone wrong in Kenya. She’d bitterly begun working as an accountant at age 28 and had stuck with it for 30 years. Because she’d been a hard worker, hoping to pay her debt off sooner rather than later, she’d been handed tough clients and difficult cases. It had been through these that she’d begun laundering money and embezzling. She’d been a wizard with numbers and it’s only because the youngest Captain in the force ever, caught onto her that she was discovered.

Hitsugaya had been 20 when he’d been recruited, directly from university with a specialty in economics, math and poor social skills. He’d made Captain of White Collar when he was 23, skipping lieutenant. He’d made his old Lieutenant his second in command and where others might see it as an insult, Matsumoto saw it as an opportunity to get around paperwork. They were a killer-team. He sharpened her and she made him human.

The case against Fujioka was delivered to Keigo and had consisted of 24 boxes filled with financial records and enough paper to make entire rainforest disappear. Mizuiro had smiled sweetly at Keigo’s face when the boxes had arrived and patted his head. Ichigo had snorted and wished him good luck, asked him if he wasn’t happy he worked homicide as opposed to white collar. Keigo had dumbly nodded. An hour later he was completely engulfed in the material and he seemed to genuinely enjoy himself. 

Oh, and lest he forget, Granz had hanged himself in his cell.

He’d been sent to the morgue for an autopsy. Despite the cause of death being obvious, Ichigo would be damned if he released Granz to the morticians and they buried him with the key to this case, simply because Ichigo didn’t do his job.

After that shitparade, he and Rukia had gone to town and was currently sitting in a smoked-filled Irish styled pub, drinking beer and laughing themselves sick. 

He’d told Ishida he had plans tonight to which he got a distracted, “Yeah, fine.”

He wouldn’t say he was hurt, but ever since the tape had been played, Ishida had been impossibly difficult to communicate with. He stared off into space, didn’t react to his name. Ichigo had decided to let him mind his own business. Instead, he’d sat with Chad, heads together discussing Granz’ suicide.

Rukia knocks back her beer and gestures for another one. Ichigo mirrors her and Rukia amends her order to two. The music is kept pleasantly in the background and it allows them to talk without screaming their throats sore. It’s some cover guitarist-live-musician-whatever and he’s played Wanted Dead or Alive three times now. Not that he minds, Ichigo and Rukia howls along every time. It’s their anthem. The song they would sing hoarsely to each other when sharing a bottle of lukewarm redwine, lying on their backs staring into the ceiling of Ichigo’s apartment.

At first, they’d talked about going to a karaoke bar, but after a minute, they’d decided they quite enjoyed having their dignity.

“So this is possibly the worst case we’ve ever worked on, mine included,” Rukia says so matter-of-fact it almost hurts. She throws a peanut into the air and fails to catch it with her mouth. Ichigo laughs and gives it a go himself. At this rate they might as well have gone to the karaoke bar.

Ichigo nods, “I don’t want anything like this for my birthday.”

He’d never had a prisoner commit suicide in his custody before. And he’d been disgusted with himself, because all he could think was, “Shit, I lost my best lead,” as opposed to mourning the loss of a human life, despite how misguided that life might’ve been. Isshin had always taught him to walk a mile in another man’s shoes before he judged him. In this line of work, it was easy to forget. 

“On the bright side, you finally got some,” she crows as the bartender puts down two fresh, foaming and deliciously cold beers. 

Ichigo gives her a withering look and takes a swig. “I’d like to think we’d managed without all this …” he gestures, trying to encompass the entire case, his dating profile, his cat. Condensation ran down the glass and he licked his lips.

Rukia shrugs.

“How about you? Anyone special in your life?” he pries.

“I resent the idea that I’d need a boyfriend for my life to be complete,” she brushes him off, a bow of foam on her upper lip.

Ichigo snorts, “That explains why you made me a dating profile.”

“I’m not sorry about that, alright? You were just so miserable after Kumi left, we figured what’s the harm, y’know?” she took another pensive mouthful, “If we’d known all we needed to do was call in the first and best probationary agent, we’d done that instead and saved the 13.000 Yen fee.”

“It had to be Ishida, I think.”

Rukia watches him then and then she places her hand over his, “I don’t care if it had to be the King of Burundi, I’m glad you’re smiling again. We all are.”

Ichigo smiles then and they clink their glasses together while Rukia says, “To smiling.”

“The best friends in the world. Oh, how I love to hate to love you.”

They drain their glasses and laugh loudly. Ichigo’s missed this, he suddenly realizes. He’s been doing very little but refuse invitations to go out, to just be with his friends without work looming behind them. He supposes he’s been pretty miserable in the wake of Kumiko breaking off their relationship.

Suddenly his phone rings and Rukia gives him a look, “If it’s work, you tell them to go fuck themselves.”

“How much?”

“The next round if you do it,” she smiles devilishly and leers.

Ichigo presses the accept button and greets, “Go fuck yourself.”

There’s completely silent on the other end and then, “Is this a bad time?”

“Shit, Ishida, I’m sorry!” he hurries to stand while Rukia slams her fist on the table, laughing so loud that even the musician looks towards them. “Just a second, I’ll just go outside.”

It’s cold outside. Not so much so that Ichigo actually notices in his inebriation, but he it sobers him and so does the sound of Ishida’s sigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asks and feels a knot in his stomach.

“Kurosaki, I need to ask … what is this? Us? I mean, when this case is over or when my six months are up, is that it? And get me right, this isn’t a proposal or anything, but I need to know if I’m just a hole you stick your dick in or if you actually like me.”

Ichigo frowns, “Where’s this coming from?”

“Just answer the question.” Ishida sounds tired. Ichigo checks the time and sees it’s a quarter past two. The neon of the city’s almost brighter, lovelier this time of night. The light blue, white and blushing rose of a toothpaste commercial reminds him of cherry trees and snow. He wonders how Ishida can’t know that he’s over the moon for him.

“Sure,” he says and it doesn’t occur to him that he’s answered a yes/no question with an affirmative.

Ishida does though, “What?”

“Sure, I like you.”

Ishida groans, “For fucks sake, would you pull your head out of your ass and answer the bloody question?!”

“If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t let you steal my cat and my couch and force me to watch shit TV,” he answers, trying to ignore the way his heart’s beating. He can’t hear the rush of cars passing him, can’t hear the other people roaming the streets, the girl next to him that’s bending over laughing. He only hears the wind and Ishida’s voice and wonders why he’s calling him now and not just asking him tomorrow.

“Okay, Project Runway is not shit, I will fight you!” is the response.

“See, this is what I mean. You’re too difficult to just be a hole to fuck.”

Ishida rolls his eyes, at least his voice is doing the equivalent of that, “You say the sweetest things.”

“What can I say, I’m a romantic at heart.”

“No, you’re not. But I like that,” he admits and Ichigo smiles

“I guess that’s the answer to your question then.”

“Yeah, remember that.”

Ishida hangs up and Ichigo slowly lowers the phone from his ears. There was an odd cadence in Ishida’s voice then, something pained. It felt more like an insurance call than it did a confession for love. He swallows, turns around and goes back inside. 

Rukia’s waiting for him, reading him and quickly pushes the new round towards him. He’s cold, but Rukia smiles and he forgets why and drinks.


	5. Chapter 5

The lights are bright. His head hurts. He’s currently waiting for the painkillers he swallowed to take effect. He’s closed his eyes and are trying to shield them as best as he possibly can, but under the circumstances it’s not a decisive difference.

He and Rukia came sloshing through the door, sunglasses and suits, looking suave as a motherfucker, but feeling like a building has fallen on them. Rukia’s in the bathroom, kneeling by the porcelain throne. Ichigo’s a trooper, so he stays where he is and wills the ibuprofen to work.

“You look like shit,” Ishida comments. Ichigo doesn’t answer. 

Ishida sits down by his desk and starts typing, opening a drawer and dumping something in it. It sounds heavy. And it hurts, because he doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that Ichigo’s recovering from a splendid night out. 

Not that he remembers much of it, but he woke up this morning with Rukia on his back on the floor of his living room, an aquarium and a guide to keeping fish on his phone, a fur-coat in the corner and smudges of lipstick on his cheeks and red marks from what he only can assume is a whip. As far as nights out, it’s not the wildest they’ve ever had, but it looks to have been a ride from start to finish none the less. He wonders how and why he purchased a fish, whose fur-coat his cat’s currently sleeping on and what fetish-bar they’d ended up in.

Sometimes, Ichigo doesn’t feel as if he deserves to walk these halls.

“Could you toss your things about a little quieter?” Ichigo asks, still waiting for the ibuprofen to start working its magic.

Ishida doesn’t answer, instead slams the drawer shut instead and Ichigo peeks out between his fingers and is met with a rather chilly and calculating stare.

“The world doesn’t stop revolving just because you have a headache,” he says, carefully neutral, “And the tenth victim is still out there, even though you go drinking yourself stupid.”

He gets up, leaving Ichigo reeling from the verbal slap in the face. He’s right of course. Ichigo just can’t bring himself to regret having a good time. He’s aware he has responsibilities, but he and Rukia aren’t the only people on the team, though they’re the ones who’s pulled the most hours so far. They needed some time to relax, not that Ishida would know what relaxation is, given he has a stick that’s lodged so far up his ass it serves as a second spine. 

Rukia appears next to him, a cup of joe in her hand. She puts it down next to him and smiles as she sits down and pointedly drinks her coffee. They’d had breakfast at Denny’s and been more than three hours late. It turns out that while nobody seems to believe it, it’s possible to get shit done while Ichigo’s not around to hold people’s hands and what not.

“He looked pissed,” Rukia notes and drinks again. 

Ichigo nods, “Yeah.”

She doesn’t comment further and Ichigo could kiss her in a strictly platonic way. Mostly because he’d like nothing more than ravish Ishida in a conference room, attitude notwithstanding. 

“You look like shit,” Chad says as he sits down and Ichigo acknowledges that he’ll just have to accept that as the fact of the day.

“Any progress?” Ichigo asks instead of deigning Captain Obvious the Second with an answer.

“Keigo found the file,” Chad informs him.

Ichigo sits up and turns around, removing his hands and letting the light bombard him. He never got nauseous from alcohol or the consumption thereof; he just gets raging headaches. He squints as he’s wont to do under a barrage of fluorescent light.

“I should let him tell you,” Chad adds.

“What’s in the file?” Rukia frowns and warms her hands on her coffee.

Chad shrugs, “We don’t know yet.”

“We don’t … know yet?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Ichigo leans back, “Get Keigo up here and tell him if he starts shouting he’s fired.”

“I don’t think you have that kind of authority,” Chad clicks his tongue.

“Try me,” Ichigo responds and keeps his eyes closed.

Chad calls Keigo and five minutes later he’s there. Ichigo opens his eyes and holds a hand up to his eyes. Keigo looks like he’s enjoying himself entirely too much, but upon seeing Ichigo’s frown, he sobers, “Good night?”

“Terrific,” Ichigo answers clipped, “The file?”

“Well, after delving into the exciting world of cabinet-filing, I finally figured out what system they’d been organized in and therefore subsequently how they’d been reorganized. And let me tell you, the old system was the freakiest thing, Ichigo, I won’t go into details, but it wasn’t the most efficient of systems, it’s more like –“

“The file,” Ichigo interrupted. 

“You used to enjoy my witty banter,” he sighs dramatically. “When I finally found it, buried underneath reports and digital dust, it turned out it’s been sealed.”

“Unseal it, then.”

“Gee, I hadn’t thought of that,” Keigo deadpans, “No, if we want in, we need a court order. It’s been sealed by Yamamoto himself, I can’t go breaking that shit. I like my job too much.”

Ichigo massages his temples, “I trust you’ve asked for one.”

“I’m not the probie here,” Keigo reminds him, “Speaking of, where is he?”

Ichigo shrugs, “Hopefully, he’s working.”

“Wow, hangovers make you tetchy,” Keigo comments. “I’m out, I have files to unseal, Paper Mountains to climb.”

He disappears quickly as if he’s actually looking forward to dive back into the files White Collar had thrown his way. Ishida steps out of the elevator as Keigo passes and they exchange words, Ishida pulling a face at something Keigo says. He makes his way back to his desk and puts down his fancy coffee and a Styrofoam container. Ichigo just stares at him as he removes the lid and finds a spoon from his drawers and starts eating the soup. He types requests one-handed and reads with searing indifference, as if he’s decided not to look at Ichigo today. The air of distance over him yesterday, as if he was a million miles away, has been replaced by coiled tension taut across his shoulders. 

“Anyways,” Chad says, trying to break the tension forming in the room, “I trust you had a good night.”

“Sorely needed,” Rukia agrees and empties her cup and throwing it out. “The only thing that would’ve made it perfect was a resulting horizontal cha-cha, but no such luck. I really need to get laid, but Ichigo always turns me down, for some reason.”

“I’m worried that if we did, you’d fall head over heels in love with me.”

“Obviously. You’re the stuff of dreams.”

“I’m built like a Spartan, you can’t resist.”

“And humble, too,” she agrees, “But, it would never work! I’m from Organized Crime and you’re from Homicide! Oh, Ichigo, oh Ichigo, wherefor art thou Ichigo!” She places her hand on her forehead, taking on a dramatic air Keigo would’ve been proud to witness.

“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” he replies. 

They sit and quote Shakespeare and Austen at each other until even Chad gets up and leaves. Ichigo doesn’t notice the way Ishida rolls his eyes and shakes his head. It’s not until he gets up and heads to the morgue that it occurs to Ichigo that he might have overstepped a line he didn’t even know had been drawn.

 

They meet that night and have sex. It’s almost as if their drunken conversation never happened. Ishida handcuffs Ichigo to his radiator and rides him through the mattress, hands skittering across his abdomen and pressing his hands into his chest for leverage. Ichigo won’t deny it’s some of the best sex he’s had, but the way Ishida immediately puts on a t-shirt and fetches a damp towel, the way he doesn’t linger after he releases Ichigo from his cuffs, it’s almost as if they just met each other, as if Ishida is a stranger already on his way out of Ichigo’s life, like he’s somewhere else entirely. 

 

It’s 4am in the morning when Mizuiro calls him. Ishida left after they’d had sex, saying he had a headache (ironically) and wasn’t feeling so well. Ichigo suggested he stay, Ishida wanted to be alone.

For a short second, the way his sheets are twisted around him, the coldness of his sheets and the way he reaches for the phone, it reminds him of that call he got about a month ago. 

“Yeah?” Ichigo greets, voice like gravel and sleep filling the cracks. 

“We just got a call from the central. There’s a something going on in the building we found Takenaka Ken. An office-worker in the building across called it in, he saw someone over there.” Mizuiro sounds alert in a way Ichigo most certainly doesn’t. He got four hours of sleep last night and had looked forward to cuddling with Ishida until the break of dawn and duty called once more, but Ishida had thrown a big, fat wrench in that plan. Ichigo had no idea what’s going on inside his head.

“Isn’t it still cordoned off?” Ichigo asks gravelly, rubbing his eyes.

“It is,” Mizuiro confirms. “It could be the tenth victim, Ichigo.”

“When’re you here?” He’s already pulling on pants and buttoning his shirt while holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder. 

“I’m two minutes out.” Mizuiro says and hangs up. Ichigo dresses quickly, stepping into his shoes and pulling on his coat. He lets the cat leave the apartment with him, holding the door for her and hurries down the stairs. Mizuiro pulls up the moment he steps out of the door. Ichigo gets into the car and runs a hand through his hair.

“What makes you think it’s our guy?”

Mizuiro checks his mirrors before he throws the car in second and speeds out onto the quiet streets again. They’re black and shiny, still wet from kissing the rain and reflects the streetlights as if they were the stars themselves. 

He shakes his head, which usually means the age-old instinct every police officer hones. In other words, Mizuiro’s gut tells him they ought to check this out.

“The others?”

“I got a hold of Chad and Rukia, but Ishida doesn’t pick up.”

“He had a headache, last I talked to him.”

“That’s nine hours ago,” Mizuiro frowns and completely ignores the red light. Ichigo forgot to check himself there, he saw Ishida six hours ago, but Mizuiro wouldn’t know. He makes a noncommitting sound and looks out the window. The building’s coming up on their right and he squints his eyes, trying to make out if there’s anything out of the ordinary. 

Suddenly, two flashes of white speeds across the building’s flank and Ichigo’s skips a beat.

“Mizuiro?”

“I saw it.” 

The car screeches and they speed through the night, the wind tailing them. The outside blurs, all except the tower. Ichigo watches to see if more flashes appears. Mizuiro throws the car onto the sidewalk, not bothering with proper parking. Ichigo’s out of the car before the keys left the ignition. They both draw their guns and exchange a look. 

Ichigo ducks under the police tape. Everything’s quiet, his own breathing sounds like thunder in the lobby. He tries masking his steps so they don’t reverberate throughout the building. His heart’s beating and he can feel his pulse in his fingertips. Mizuiro’s about to click on his torchlight, but Ichigo stops him with a gesture. 

Something clatters, echoing through the concrete halls. 

Ichigo holds out a hand and has Mizuiro stay. He moves closer to the elevator shaft, the noise travelling down the wired spine. He holds his breath. Another clang and he can suddenly hear strained groans shaking through the air. The wind sucks the breath out of the building, sighing as it does.

A cone of light spreads the darkness and he quickly closes his hand, signaling whoever it belongs to, to quell it before it gives their presence away. Rukia comes up next to him, pointing to the shaft.

“What floor?” she mouths.

Ichigo doesn’t get to answer before someone yells and the cables screech. Ichigo stick his head in and looks up. Someone’s dangling from the cables, a massive build, pure muscles and granite. He grunts and huffs, labored breathing travelling all the way down to them.

A gunshot rings out. 

The man falls.

Ichigo pulls out his head. His hair touches the man. He lands heavily, but he’s still breathing.

“Mizuiro! Call an ambulance! Chad! Rukia! With me!” he orders and gestures for the stairs. They can hear the drumming of the steps as someone flies down and the sirens coming closer.

“Stop! Tokyo PD!” Ichigo shouts up and the steps still for a second, then they begin again. 

“He’s turned around!” Rukia says.

A door’s flung open. They reach it within seconds, the closest landing, the door still ajar. They hurry inside, lights out. Ichigo catches a glimpse of him. He’s moving from pillar to pillar, taking cover. 

“The building’s surrounded!” Ichigo informs him, hoping he’ll spook him out. He does, but not the way Ichigo intended. The shadow’s clad in dark grey from head to toe, wearing a black motorbike helmet. It’s matte and bleeding into the darkness around them. He came dressed to the task and moves unhindered as if the other man didn’t land any hits at all. A twinge then and Ichigo knows it adrenaline keeping the other upright.

Before Ichigo can even aim, he’s run to the elevator shaft, jumped and grabbed the wires. Ichigo feels him make eye contact and the hair’s on the back of his neck stand. The shooter slides down the wire and disappears. 

“Fuck!” he swears and runs to the shaft, “I’ll follow here, you take the stairs!”

He stands at the lip of the shaft, feeling every cell in his body begging him not to, but he’s never been good with self-preservation. He jumps and grabs a hold of the wires, loosens his grip. Calling it sliding seems too slow, he’s falling under controlled circumstances. He finds that the victim’s been moved and the medics are still getting to their feet, where the shooter barreled through them. 

They point Ichigo towards the rear-exit and he sprints towards it. The rear is bathed in blue lights, their reinforcements stacked high.

It’s the sound of an engine rumbling that has him throwing himself aside as a motorbike, black and sleek as a shadow, matte like the helmet and tightly maneuvered, crashes through the window and skids across the lobby floor. Ichigo’s breath is coming short and staggered, but he hauls himself from the ground and follows the bike around. 

The bike glides elegantly through the door, avoiding all the people in the way. It slows the driver, enough so that Ichigo can catch up. Outside, the ambulances are scattered and the barricade’s patchy at best. The bike swerves around whatever personnel and vehicles are in it’s way. It’s skillfully driven, almost like watching a dancer. Mizuiro’s car starts and Ichigo sees Rukia behind the wheel, gesturing for him to hurry the fuck up. He slides into the passenger-seat and they’re off.

Rukia drives with her tongue in her cheek, barely avoiding cars and people alike. 

At 4:30am there’s a limited amount of traffic, which serves as an advantage and a drawback alike. They have more room to maneuver, which means the bike can’t lose them in traffic, but with the empty lanes, the bike has the advantage of speed and agility. 

Rukia punches the speeder and Ichigo scouts for the bike. It turns left at the intersection in front of them and Rukia uses the handbrake, forcing the car to take the corner as well. Ichigo doubts Mizuiro’s car has ever been driven like this, but there’s a first time for everything.

“This is Lieutenant Kurosaki Ichigo, badge 78347, requesting back-up. We’re in pursuit of a black Honda NM4 Vultus heading down 407 – “

“How the fuck can you see it’s a NM4 Vultus?!” Rukia screams as the bike feints a left turn and swivels to take the right.

“In the process of almost running me over, I happened to notice it’s rather unmistakable design!” he screams back at her as she barely misses oncoming traffic.

She’d turned the car left, now she forces it into reverse and makes a J-turn, before flipping it into third and melting the wheels, shooting after the motorbike.

“Ichigo, if this is our guy …” 

“I know, at the harbor.”

Suddenly, the bike is gone. Rukia slams the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of an intersection and looks around, wild and sharp like glass. There’s a tunnel in front of them, darkness unbroken and still. They open their doors and take a half-step out. She looks right and Ichigo looks left, driving the cold air into his lungs, beating down the adrenaline. 

The night’s quiet, nothing to give away the bike’s position. 

Rukia snaps her head towards the tunnel where a light’s come on. She throws herself into the car and flares the engine before Ichigo has closed his door.

It’s a duel, almost, a stand-off. The motorbike isn’t moving, daring Rukia to pursue it, but she stays, aware that if she charges it’ll simply drive around her. So they stay put, Rukia clutching the wheel, eyes steeled ahead. The radio cackles and report that back-up’s on the way. 

Then, the bike moves. It’s a blur of movement, but it’s heading straight towards them and howling like a wolf. 

Rukia doesn’t move.

It’s only when the driver reclines the bike to their left that she jams the speeder and immediately goes left too. The driver doesn’t even hiccup, only sharpens his turn, leaning so far left that he almost destabilizes the entire bike. He makes a wide turn, using his right leg to spin and then goes right around them. Rukia swears and reverse the car again. It costs them precious seconds to turn and the bike’s far ahead of them. 

Then it turns right and they lose it from sight. 

Rukia punches the wheel, “Dammit!”

“78347, we’re in pursuit of the bike in question, over,” the radio scrambles.

The bike reappears from the very same intersection it disappeared, charging directly towards them. Ichigo’s breath hitches and realizes how fucked they are. Three cars are mere meters from it. Rukia’s throwing the car into reverse, backing up and into the intersection they lost the bike in. She’s barely off the road before the bike passes them.

It’s like a black zephyr and disappears into the gaping maw of the tunnel ahead of them. Three cars are tailing it, rushing in after it. 

Rukia lets her head fall back, breathing hard. Ichigo rubs his face, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

The radio sizzles, “We’ve lost sight of the bike. Repeat, we’ve lost sight of the bike.”

Rukia sighs, staring out the window, “I hate this game.”

“Amen,” Ichigo says and lets his head fall back, while he tries to forget how close they were to catching the bastard tonight.

 

“One good thing came of this,” Mizuiro says when they return the car to him.  
“What?” Ichigo asks, mostly because he feels obliged.  
Mizuiro smiles gloatingly, “We got his blood.”

 

They go directly to the precinct. It’s ten minutes away and there’s coffee. 

The victim’s name is Yammy Llargo. While the fall would’ve killed a lesser man, Llargo’s still breathing. A few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a shattered elbow are all that came of it. He’s covered in bruises and cuts, the bullet wound planted solidly in his shoulder, which also proves to be a minor scratch to the colossus. He has orange eyebrows and sideburns, a forceful jaw and a malicious smile. And a tattoo with the number “10” on his left shoulder.

Ichigo had exchanged a look with Chad, both of them thinking of Nel’s tattoo. They both wonder if the numbers have any significance, none of the other victims had them. It’s a specific pattern none the less and it’s enough to get Ichigo to get Keigo to dig thoroughly through Llargo’s life.

Doctors and nurses have kept him heavily sedated, making it impossible to question him about what he was doing in the building and who attacked him. Uniforms have been posted outside his ward with explicit orders not to let anyone in and call them the second he regains consciousness. 

CSU’s running the DNA they’d sampled from the scene. From what they could gather from the crime scene itself, the shooter didn’t get away scot-free, as Ichigo’d predicted. Llargo appears to have taken some caution and protected himself against him, dishing out a lot of what he’d been dealt himself. 

At seven, Ishida steps off the elevator, looking three new shades of terrible, insomnia rippling off him in thick waves. He dumps his messenger bag onto his desk and sits down with a stiffness Ichigo can only recognize too well. 

“Rough night?” Ichigo asks him, pushing a bottle of Advil his way.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” His voice is coarse, grating almost. He fishes a bottle of water out from one of his drawers and takes a sip before downing three pills and drinking again.

“You look perky,” he says then, “How long have you been here?”

“Since 5.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone when Mizuiro called you?” Rukia asks when she rejoins them, third cup of the day in her hand.

“I’d turned it off,” he answers, frowning,

Rukia shakes her head and sits down. Ishida flushes at being dismissed without a single word and turns his head back to his computer, firing it up. He starts, looking poised while doing it. Ichigo watches him a short while, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the hard lines of his shoulders. Ishida gives him a sidelong glance.

The elevator pings and Ichigo looks up, pure habit by now. He stops when he sees Shun step out and looking around, searching for someone. Ichigo stands, “Shun?” What brings you here?”

Shun starts towards him, eyes still sweeping the place, “Is Orihime with you?”

“No,” he frowns. Shun looks around again, worry beginning to overtake his features, etching it’s way into his face. His hair’s usually a mess, but it seems even more tousled now from running hands through it again and again. His glasses are almost slipping off his nose, but he catches them and runs another hand through his hair.

“She isn’t at the morgue?” Ichigo asks, the worry contagious.

“Hasn’t been there since yesterday afternoon and Tatsuki-san hasn’t seen her either.”

He doesn’t have to voice his worries because it isn’t like Inoue to disappear like this, Ichigo already knows what he’s thinking. He turns towards Rukia and Ishida, “Any of you speak with Inoue yesterday?”

Rukia shakes her head and Ishida doesn’t even answer. Ichigo takes a deep breath, “Ishida?”

Ishida drags his eyes towards him and blinks once, “What?”

“Did you speak with Inoue yesterday?”

“No, I decidedly ignored her when I went to the morgue.” His voice is edging on condescending and it has Ichigo tighten his jaw. 

“Did you speak with her yesterday?”

Ishida rolls his eyes, all but muttering, “Didn’t I just say?”

Ichigo turns to Shun, “Excuse him, Shun. We haven’t seen her.”

“Thanks, I’ll try calling her again, but would you keep an eye out?” he sounds close to devastated. “It was nice meeting you Ishida-san, Inoue speaks highly of you.”

Ishida doesn’t say anything, only taps his fingers on the table. Ichigo follows Shun to the elevator, trying but failing to keep his temperament in check. The minute the light of Inoue’s life has disappeared from view, he turns on his heel and marches back to Ishida’s desk. People fall silent in the wake of his progress, like ripples in the water. They can smell blood and knows some is about to be spilled, figuratively. 

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Ishida purses his lips and clicks his tongue, “A problem from the sound of it.”

“If you ever mouth off towards someone in that sort of situation again, you will be suspended. Do I make myself clear?”

“As a bell,” he mutters, sounding like a teenager agreeing with a parent. The bullpen’s gone deadly quiet. 

“Good.” Ichigo takes in the stand-offish attitude Ishida’s flaunting. The set of his shoulders, like a martyr ready to take the next arrow-shot. There’s something off about him, something so tightly coiled it could break bones if Ishida didn’t keep it forced down.

“Get back to work,” Ichigo shouts to the general audience around them. Suddenly, everybody’s busy again. Everyone except Ishida, it seems. He’s poised like the eye of a hurricane, as if death itself couldn’t persuade him to move.

Mizuiro and Keigo rush through the doors, Keigo looking over his shoulder and falling out of step with Mizuiro, quickly catching up though.

“What’s up?” Ichigo asks when they come closer.

“We matched the blood,” Mizuiro says, sounding far too grim for that to be good news.

Ishida inclines his head towards them, a frowning softly, “What blood?”

“The blood we recovered from the crime scene,” Mizuiro brushing him off, much the same way Rukia had done. Ichigo understands them both, this is the difference between professionals and probationary agents. Ishida might have a lot of potential, but he has no concept what sacrifices and what claims the job demanded, how much of your life it becomes. It’s not so much a job as it is a way of life. You don’t get to turn off your cell-phone and withdraw from your responsibilities. 

Ishida sighs and turns away, apparently accepting that turning off his cellphone was the worst decision he’d made in his life thus far if Rukia and Mizuiro’s attitudes were anything to go by.

“Yeah, it’s another fucking dead end.” Keigo crosses his arms.

“What do you mean?” Rukia questions.

“It’s not in the database.”

Ichigo wants to throw something. When they finally make headway, it’s just to slam their heads into the next wall. He’s so tired.

“Can we widen the search?” he grits out. It’s their first tangible lead, their first piece of hard evidence, evidence that could blow this thing wide open. Suddenly, he’s just tired.

Mizuiro shakes his head, “Already did that.”

“What about the other case? Have we got the court order?”

Keigo nods, “Yeah, but,” and then shakes his head, “We unsealed it. It’s an old homicide. An old man, name redacted, brutally murdered in the park. There’s nothing in that case that connects with this. First off, it was like 18 years ago. Second, there’s no indication anywhere that this was anything but a crime of opportunity. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, speaks to this case being related to ours except for the fact that the case number appeared in the riddle.”

“Why was it sealed then?” Rukia asks.

Keigo shrugs, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

 

Ichigo’s lying on the couch watching the finale of Project Runway, petting the cat while doing it. He’s surprised at how much she’s been staying with him over the past few weeks, but he has a sneaking suspicion she’s taken to Ishida as much as he has. He looks to the door again for what seems to be the 30th time, sighing. 

While the three finalists are being scored, Ichigo finds his phone and dials Ishida’s number. Ishida picks up on the fifth ring and sounds exhausted.

“Are you coming over tonight?” Ichigo asks, feeling his stomach curl in anticipation. 

“No.”

Ichigo’s taken aback by the rather frank answer. He opens his mouth a few times, trying to find an answer that doesn’t sound needy or immature. He’s come a long way, if he must say so himself. When he was younger he didn’t filter at all.

“Why?” he settles on.

“You don’t get to make me feel like shit and then have me spread my legs for you,” he says carefully and hangs up. 

Ichigo swallows thickly and snaps his phone shut. He rubs his eyes and sighs. The cat’s still purring from the top of his chest and he finds the weight reassuring. 

While the TVs jubilant with color and cheers for the winner, Ichigo just feels it seep from his very bones. His mouth tastes like ashes and he’s just so Goddamn tired.

If he takes a long shower while trying to wash off the stench of today, that’s his business.

 

When Ichigo shows up for work at 6:30 in the morning, Ishida’s already there. He’s buried in files and seems to be reading them intensively. His nose is almost touching the paper, his hair’s been pushed behind his ears so it doesn’t drag across it.

Ichigo makes eye-contact with Chad who shrugs. He gestures to the breakroom and Chad nods, getting up and following him there. Ishida doesn’t even look up from his files.

“How long’s he been here?” Ichigo asks Chad when they reach the breakroom. Chad starts the coffee-machine as Ichigo finds two cups for them. A breath loosens in his chest, simply by being near him. It’s really one of Chad’s greatest assets, he makes people feel at ease if only because he’s a shelter in every sense of the word. 

“He was here when I came in,” he replies. Chad’s usually the first to stamp in at 6am. He likes to have the hour before the rest of them filter in to gather his thoughts, his calm. He pours the coffee and hands Ichigo one of the cups, preferring his own like tar while Ichigo likes drinking his polluted. 

Rukia swings into the breakroom, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in Ishida’s general direction, looking puzzled. Ichigo shrugs while he stirs.

“When did he –“

“He was here when I came in,” Chad repeats and takes a sip.

“What’s he doing here this early?” She reaches out and plucks the cup out of Ichigo’s hands. He just finds another and has Chad pour him another cup. Rukia makes a face as she drinks his. Serves her right.

Ichigo shakes his head, “I think he got the message from yesterday.”

Rukia looks pensive as she stirs the coffee. They stand around drinking their coffee. Ichigo keeps his left hand in his pocket and his coffee in his right. It’s a certain morning ritual this. They haven’t had much time to do it in the past month, but it’s customary they meet in the breakroom and have the first coffee of the day together. He’s missed the easy company the two of them provide.

Inoue will usually join them, staying from the coffee, but drinking tea in solidarity. She usually prefers drinking smoothies or juice, likes the taste better. She never got addicted in college and so she lives a life free from caffeine, which Ichigo at times envies her.

He frowns, “Any word from Inoue?” 

Both Rukia and Chad shake their head, but it’s Rukia who says, “We should have Keigo run the surveillance.”

“You don’t think –“

“I only want to be sure.” Rukia has a point of course. She always does.

“I’ll go,” Chad says and makes another cup of coffee to bring Keigo. 

When he’s left, Ichigo sighs and leans back against the counter. He takes another sip and breathes in. Rukia comes to stand next to him, leaning back too and looking into the ceiling. “She’s probably fine.”

Ichigo nods and finishes his coffee. They go back into the bullpen.

 

Ishida’s oddly taciturn most of the morning. Where he’d just started chirping in and commenting, he holds his tongue and just keeps reading now. The others notice the change of attitude as well. Ichigo doesn’t give him another assignment, whatever it is he’s working on he deemed it important enough to show up two hours earlier than usual. Ishida hates mornings with a passion. Ichigo’d casually asked around and found that Ishida had come in at 5 and started pulling files left and right. 

And they’d been pulled from all over. Ichigo wondered what he was playing at, but so far he’d requested files, and they were still coming in, from over five different departments. Organized Crime, White Collar, Counter Terrorism, Narcotics and Sex Crime. And he read them head bowed low, tipped back in his chair, crossed his legs and licked his lips, as if he knew they were the bane of Ichigo’s existence, just like his legs.

It’s odd to Ichigo that he can fully appreciate how much of an ass Ishida is and at the same time totally be game for some backroom hanky-panky. Sometimes he wonders when he stopped being a decorated officer and turned into this lust-driven masochist. Love will do that he supposes. And wow, there’s a can of worms he hadn’t been remotely ready to open.

First off, he’d known Ishida for approximately a month and known him biblically for three weeks. It just doesn’t seem to be the best or healthiest of ways to start an actual relationship, when they’re in gore up to their elbows and oh yeah, the other part’s a fucking douchenozzle who’s mercurial and bloody trying most of the time. 

Except he isn’t. It really sucks to admit, but Ichigo knows he’s not all the ice and eye-rolling he presents himself as. Ishida’s proud to a fault, but there’s something so humble in him too, as if he’s standing alone surrounded by the tallest things imaginable. He’ll look up and wonder if he’ll ever get to the sky from there and then he’ll start climbing because he’s never backed down from a challenge and his pride won’t allow him to start now. 

Ishida makes him better. He makes him sharper, makes him faster, makes him smarter. In trying to impress, protect, befriend and learn from him, he ended up falling just a teensy bit in love with him. Problem is, he rarely does anything by halves. 

Renji’d come by, carrying a box packed and piled with manila folders and Ishida had taken them and started rifling through them immediately. The look on Renji’s face had been priceless, granted, but Ichigo had taken pity on him and invited him to enjoy a cup of the shittiest coffee in the precinct. 

“He’s busy,” he’d commented when they’d once again retired to the breakroom to have a cup of coffee and talk about Ishida. Ichigo’d nodded and sighed, “With what, we have no idea.”

Renji drank his coffee with a permanent frown, seemingly not appreciating the coffee. How dared he, this was the lifeblood of this department. Maybe that’s why their clearance-rate was so shitty. He’d bring it up with the commissioner and push for a new coffee-machine. Preferably one that didn’t hate him. Not being hated would be a nice change of pace. He looks out through the blinds and watches Ishida chew on a pencil.

“Is this coffee or donkeypiss?” Renji asks after finishing the cup.

“At this point, I don’t think I could tell the difference,” Ichigo responds.

He makes a face, “You weren’t kidding when you said the shittiest coffee in the precinct.”

“If you don’t like it you can piss off.” Ichigo took another sip and saw Rukia do the same. The first time she’d brought Renji here, she’d impressed him with drinking the coffee and smirked at him. “I cleared coffee a long time ago,” she’d said and Renji had looked wildly impressed. The myths and legends of their terrible coffee seemed to be far-reaching.

“Oi, shithead, I’ve come to help your sorry ass.”

Rukia’s been watching him carefully over the rim of her cup. She turns to Renji and asks pointedly, “Why did you come all the way down here?”

“Certainly not for the coffee,” Renji answers and puts the cup into the sink. He’s polite enough to fill it with water and let it soak. Ichigo’s heard rumors that they have an actual espresso-machine in their breakroom, but Rukia will neither confirm nor deny. 

“I heard about the casefile you found. The old man in the Chiyoda?”

Rukia nods, “What about him?”

“His name’s been redacted, yeah?”

“How did you know?” Ichigo straightens.

“It’s somewhat of an urban legend in Organized Crime.” Renji scratches his neck. 

Rukia frowns, “I’ve never heard of this.”

“You’ve never been the gossiping sort and it’s primarily the lieutenants who do the gossiping in the first place.” He makes a face and clears his throat, “It was an embarrassment to the entire department. It’s been buried deep.” Another face, “Obviously, not deep enough.”

Ichigo licks his lips and takes a mouthful of coffee, “The old man’s this case?”

Renji nods, “Rumor has it that two decades ago, they’d been on the verge of getting an informant from deep within the Yakuza, but he was murdered within a week of being offered the deal.”

There’s a potent silence. 

“I spoke with Nanao-san, you know, from Witness Protection. She told me that, because of the victim’s standing, they were supposed to have protection on him at all times, but that night they hadn’t had anyone in the area. They didn’t provide the protection they’d promised and he’d died as a result. Intern Affairs spent more than a year trying to sort it out.”

“Fuck me,” Rukia rubs her eyes and shakes her head. “That’s why it was classified?”

Renji nodded, “No one outside the NPA knows about this.”

“The people responsible, surely, would know as well,” Ichigo interjects and looks between them. Word travelled fast within the families. Killing a traitor would no doubt elevate your rank. A prize for a job well done and the family honor saved.

“Them too.” Renji paused, “Nanao-san also mentioned that the vic hadn’t been alone that night.”

Rukia’s eyes widen, “A witness?” 

“A witness,” Renji affirms.

“That could be our motive. Revenge. The protection they were promised didn’t come and it results in the death of the man and then it was covered up!” Rukia perks up.

“Why kill ten people if all he wants is revenge? And revenge on who? WITSEC for fucking up? Kyoraku-san for not keeping his promise? The Yakuza who killed him? The NPA as a whole?” Ichigo asked, feeling a bit cautious about jumping to conclusions. Did they deserve this break? Fuck yeah. Did Ichigo believe it would come this easy? No. No, he didn’t.

Rukia frowned and Ichigo let her sort out the thoughts. He could almost hear her thinking and Renji didn’t interrupt either of them. When he’d first come by, he’d been questioning Ichigo every step of the way, fighting him on almost every point he made. It wasn’t until Ichigo succeeded in clearing Rukia that Renji began trusting Ichigo’s judgment. 

Rukia says, “We didn’t look like idiots then, he might want to make sure we do this time. Twenty years is a long time.”

“Okay, our ten victims are collateral?”

Rukia shrugs slowly, then shakes her head, “No. Start over. The ten victims were a way of getting us engaged. They’re all statements and this case is high-profile because of that. We’ve been on it for a month and haven’t solved it yet. We look completely incompetent, despite Kojima’s efforts. This feels like a set-up and then the pay-off comes later.”

“So it’s vengeance on the NPA as a whole?” Ichigo asks, deliberately forcing her to think again. He’s found that asking the right questions to the right people works wonders. 

“Maybe,” she says carefully, “But there’s got to be a finale. Llargo didn’t have a dragon tattoo, so whoever does is still out there and considering how much work and planning have gone into this already, I doubt he woudn’t end it with a bang.”

Renji smirks, “You really like pretending you’re the stupid one, huh?”

Ichigo shrugs, because he’s not wrong. 

“Did Nanao-san say anything about the witness?” Rukia rushes, looking awake and quivering like a spring shower. 

Renji shakes his head, “Person’s still under WITSEC and considering they’re not mentioned in the original case file, I doubt we’re meant to know their identity. We don’t even have the name of the victim for the exact same reason.”

“We need that name,” Ichigo says, quietly. Rukia nods.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises,” Renji relents. Ichigo appreciates that, how far Renji’s willing to go for the sake of a case. He’d been undercover for about three years and had dug his way through some pretty shitty situations. He’d backed them eventually in Rukia’s case, giving them eyes on the inside. He’s beefed out with Rukia’s older brother about it, which had somehow earned him a promotion. If Ichigo got a promotion every time he insulted or fought the Captains, he’d be running the NPA by now. 

“I better get going,” Renji says and just before he’s out the door, he turns and adds, “but if you don’t wanna wait and don’t care, there’s always the Shop.”

Ichigo nods and Renji lifts his hand and disappears. 

“You know that whatever information we get there won’t be admissible in court,” Rukia comments. 

“I know. But at this point, what else can we do?”

They stand for a second, look at each other and Rukia sighs. “Fine. We’ll go tomorrow.”

 

“What’s this?” Ichigo asks as Ishida hands him a file.

“Reconciliation,” is the answer.

Ishida stretches and goes to the elevator, presumably to go down and get lunch. Ichigo still hasn’t seen him pull anything from the vending machine or use the coffee machine in the breakroom. Except that one time. Shame, he almost hears whispered in his ears.

“What’s that?” Rukia asks as she hands him a sandwich from said vending machine. Ichigo can’t even remember a time where these tasted good and nourishing.

Ichigo shakes his head, leans back in his chair and opens it.

Nel’s face stares back up at him, eyes focused and a challenging smile on her lips. The scars the same and she’s wearing almost vulgar rouge and a white beret. He immediately flies up from his seat, sitting ramrod straight.

Rukia’s barely in time to move the sandwich before Ichigo’s claimed the desk. 

“What the fuck?” she hisses and goes to read over his shoulder. He can feel the hairs on his neck standing and a shiver goes down her spine.

“Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck?” she reads.

“He found her,” Ichigo says and looks up to the elevator, hoping that maybe Ishida hasn’t taken the lift down yet, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, Ichigo sits back again and starts reading.

Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck, 30, a menace onto herself. She was the kumicho of a little but heavyweight family in Adachi. She’s been involved with trafficking of both drugs and Taiwanese girls and operates out of Shizuoka. Her usual mode of operations were to use so-called Ghost Containers, containers outfitted with already existing IDs. Just like the one they’d found their first victim hanging from. She’d been arrested for manslaughter, drug-smuggling, and fraud. Then six years ago, she’d reorganized her business and kept a low profile. Only to resurface with a lobotomy and a tattoo. 

Ichigo swallowed, “I’m starting to doubt whether or not she’s a victim.”

Rukia meets his eyes, “Do we have Granz’ autopsy report?”

“Inoue would’ve filed it day before yesterday.”

They both stop and Ichigo reaches for his phone, flipping it open and speed-dialing Keigo.

“Office of Supreme Awesome,” he answers automatically and again, there’s so many things Ichigo’s forgotten to appreciate the past few weeks.

“Keigo? Do you have Inoue’s autopsy report on Granz?” His heart is hammering, he can feel the urgency seep through the phone, because Keigo seems to type a little faster than he usually does. The seconds it takes him are almost painful.

“I do not,” he answers, “Hey, listen, Chad and I have been going through surveillance and she left around five pm. Ishida walked her out and then we’ve been able to follow her to Chiyoda, but then she disappears.”

“Chiyoda?” Ichigo repeats and looks to Rukia who shakes her head, thinking the same as him, he guesses. It can’t be a coincidence.

“Get CSU out there, have Chad go with them. Rukia and I are going to the hospital. You dig into Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck.”

“Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck?”

“Look into Yammy Llargo as well.”

Keigo huffs, “I already did. He’s clean.”

“Look again,” Ichigo orders and gets up, hanging up. 

“She’s missing?” Rukia puts on her coat and grabs their current file on Llargo and the print out of the Chiyoda-murder Keigo’d put together for them.

Ichigo can’t answer her. All he can think about is the look of Shun’s face yesterday and feels his heart contract. 

He all but punches the call-button for the elevator. It opens and he’s face to face with Ishida, who watches him like he’s a caged animal. Ichigo signals for Ishida to get out and both he and Rukia squeezes in while he does.

He turns and meets Ishida’s eyes, “Call Shun and tell him Inoue’s missing!” 

“Where’re you going?” Ishida asks looking confused.

“To visit Llargo,” Ichigo answers. “Oh, and Ishida?”

The other stares.

“Good work.”

As the elevator closes, he catches a ghost of a smile, seeped in sadness, and his own heart almost dawns. It feels like a timid ray of sun in the harsh winter air, beautiful, but in no way capable of thawing the ice.

 

The fact that there’s a traffic jam has Ichigo reconsidering his belief in a benevolent God. It’s not even rush hour and as far as any of them knows, there isn’t any road work happening on their way to St. Luke’s. They turned off the radio, preferring the silence to obnoxious radio-hosts with no life besides being a pain in the ear. 

It started raining the minute they pulled out of the parking cellar. Rukia had been forced to drive in reverse the entire way out, the cellar almost filled to the brim with cars. Ichigo couldn’t remember a time where there’d been that many cars. They had, of course, their patrol cars, but the only time they cluttered the cellar was around the time the shifts overlapped and such. Most employees of the Keishicho took the subway like Ichigo did. 

They’d made it out alive because Rukia’s a trooper in reverse.

They haven’t had rain like this since September. It’s melting the streetlights and flooding the streets. People hide under umbrellas and walk as far away from the road as they can in an effort to avoid being splashed when cars rush past. 

Ichigo follows the windscreen-wipers with his eyes, watching it push water to and fro. He’s stopped tapping his fingers and twitching his leg. Rukia keeps her eyes on the road, trying to figure out where she could drive without them getting caught in traffic like this.

Eventually, Ichigo says, “To recap: Out main suspect is the witness from the old man’s homicide 18 years ago, yeah?”

“I would say he’s a person of interest at least. I wouldn’t put it past our riddlemaker to lead us to him like that. He wants to be acknowledged. These murders are all incredibly flashy, like he’s screaming: Look at me! Look at me!”

“The shooter who attacked Llargo, what do you think?”

Rukia licks her lips, “Same as you.”

“Good. We’ll treat Llargo like a suspect then. I think we should let him steer the interview and then get a read on him.” Ichigo runs a hand through his hair as a scooter shoots by them on the sidewalk. He throws water onto the pedestrians, suddenly weaving in between the cars and making his way ahead through the tailbacks.

“And Inoue?” Rukia asks.

Ichigo shakes his head, “Chad should be there now. We’ll have to hope he finds something.”

Rukia tightens her grip on the wheel and presses her lips together, “Are you sure you want to involve yourself with Urahara-san?”

“Are you asking because you have a better idea or …”

“I’m asking because he was thrown off the force for a reason,” Rukia answers and puts the car in second as traffic starts moving again.

“Was he?” Ichigo tries and looks to her. Urahara had helped them a lot when Rukia was being investigated. He’d been discharged from the NPA for treading that fine, fine line between right and wrong, his methods oftentimes questionable but wildly effective. The Urahara Matter still spread the waters. Some people, like Ichigo, understood why he had bent the rules and why it at times was necessary; and then some, like Rukia, who believed that the rules were there to make sure no one began thinking of themselves as above the law. Which, in essence, was what Urahara had done.

He’d opened a bar then. It’s simply called The Shop and it attracts all sorts of people from all walks of life, which is exactly what Urahara wants. Ichigo has never met a person so rigid in their morals who at the same time drinks with the absolute dregs of life. In that regard, Ichigo admires him. He’s a bastard, he always knows more than he lets on and he isn’t above using people as pawns in his own game. 

And Rukia takes offense to him also, because much of the reason she was being investigated was Urahara’s fault.

“We’re not doing this again,” she mutters and slips into a street with no cars whatsoever. She then speeds up and finally, they’re making headway.

“If our case is rooted in the fuck-up of WITSEC, he will be the one to know about it. We can try going through official channels, but I doubt we’ll get information any faster or any more reliable.”

“I know!” Rukia sneers, then checks herself, “I know. I just don’t like him.”

“Fair,” Ichigo says. 

They sit in silence while she drives through the streets, spraying water in her wake. They make it to the hospital within ten minutes. Neither of them bothered with umbrellas, which they are now paying the price for. They’re all but drenched when they walk through the lobby and stand there while the nurses give them withering looks for dragging water and tempest inside.

Ichigo’s phone rings then and he digs it out of his jeans, fighting, rather, because wet jeans are unrelenting. He flips it open and sees a drop of water falling to the ground. He sighs and he answers.

“Kurosaki.”

“Okay, this Llargo bro is a scary piece of shit, Ichigo,” Keigo says and Ichigo gestures for Rukia to follow him to a seating area a little ways away from the nurses station and the reception. 

“What did you find?” he asks as he puts it on speaker so Rukia can hear as well.

“Oh, you name it and bad boy here’s done it. Arson, home invasion, drug smuggling, kidnapping, murder, living the thug life, gangsta style. He’s all over the map.” Keigo’ still tapping away and Ichigo guesses it’s because he’s only just cracked the shell of this.

Rukia frowns, “How did you miss this?”

“Because that Trojan horse had a friend,” Keigo sounds angry. “Someone had altered our files. Odelschwanck and Granz too.”

“We had Granz’ information before this,” he counters. 

Keigo sounds exhausted as he says, “Yeah, but I pulled that from the archives when I saw we had it there. I’m against killing trees, which is why I’m pushing for iPads so we can save the trees. And make sharing information that much easier, but everyone and their mother seems to believe it would be a waste of resources, yet nobody minds when we print three years’ worth of bank statements. Seriously, all of the respect to Hitsugaya and his posse, but they’re currently the number one reason the Amazon is vanishing.”

“Ishida pulled his files from the archive, too.” Rukia interrupts Keigo’s rant and gives him a look and Ichigo nods.

“Did you know hemp produces four times more oxygen, grows like fucking grass and can be used for paper, clothes and medicinal purposes? Isn’t it crazy that the paper-lobbyists pushed so hard it became demonized and gang-related?” Keigo continues, because once on this path, very little can stop him. “All I’m saying is, plant hemp, kids. You can make your own paper and your own oxygen, right from your flower box. Maybe I should start selling that idea. We could be rich, filthy rich, my friends!”

Rukia rolls her eyes and Ichigo knows she’s about to say something snappy at him, so Ichigo beats her to it.

“What do you have on Llargo? We’re about to pay him a visit,” Ichigo stares at the reflection in the glass and realizes how harrowed he looks. No wonder Ishida had taken to kissing his brow and stroking his hair when they were just lazing in Ichigo’s bed after sex. God, he misses Ishida. And he saw him literally half an hour ago. It seems longer though. It seems infinitely longer.

“Alright, Yammy Llargo – and seriously, who finds these names? It’s like alphabet-soup gone wrong – he was born and bred in Kyoto, first time in jail was when he was 13 for vandalism. Since then he’s been in and out and in and out of prison, each time levelling up on the creep-ladder.” There’s some typing and then he continues, “His latest notch on the crime-post is manslaughter which earned him five years, but he got out on good behavior? Sounds fake, but okay. Anyways, considering he’s yet to learn how to dodge the police after eight tries, I dare say he doesn’t have the same amount of brainpower as he does muscles.”

Ichigo’s scowl just deepens the more Keigo tells them. It doesn’t make sense. Who in their right mind would go after someone like Llargo without second thoughts? The shooter had been slight, as far as Ichigo had seen. Fast, but slight. Even if he could outrun Llargo he couldn’t hope to beat him. Until he’d shot him and sent him tumbling down an elevator-shaft. Which, in hindsight, seems to have been a little too convenient to be pure coincidence. Ichigo wonders who to watch out for: Llargo, the muscle and temper, or the shooter, the brain and the trickster.

“Any news on Inoue?”

“Chad’s there now, but Chiyoda’s a big place. We don’t know where she was taken from.”

“Keep working, we’ll find her,” Ichigo assures him, though the look Rukia gives him tells him he doesn’t look as convincing as he sounds.

“Yeah. Good luck with the devil spawn there,” Keigo greets and hangs up. 

They exchange looks and yeah, they’re probably going to need that.

 

Llargo’s lying in his bed watching children’s TV and eating M&M’s. Ichigo would really like to know how in the name of all good and glorious he got those. The man chuckles every now and again, as a character on screen gets hurt and then suddenly he changes channel and starts watching the news. He seems to enjoy these as much as he did the cartoons. 

“… in other news, the Tokyo PD has yet to apprehend the man responsible for the string of murders in Tokyo, the so-called Riddler,” and Ichigo does not remember giving the creep such a lame-ass name, “Kojima Mizuiro from the department of Homicide had this to say …”

They cut to a press-conference Mizuiro had held earlier today. He’s standing on a rostrum, microphones from every self-respecting news-agency in Japan, CNN, BBC and others Ichigo can’t make out are propped onto the rim of it. Mizuiro looks calm as he says:

“Everything is being done to apprehend the suspect. We’re working on several leads, but at this time we cannot specify further as not to jeopardize the investigation.”

A reporter shouts, “What about the shooting?”

“We have leads that will ensure the capture of the shooter.”

“And the victim? Is he the tenth victim the riddles speak of?”

If Mizuiro’s surprised they know about the riddles, he doesn’t show, all he does is calmly inform the reporters that the investigation is being handled by the best and most dedicated of people and they will do their best to catch the perpetrator.

Llargo changes the channel again, this time to National Geographic and a show about Africa’s big cats. Ichigo knows. He’s seen it a few times when he’s been home alone, no cat and no case. He’d watched it almost religiously after Kumiko left. His friends had asked if he wanted to go out, but he’d rather be left alone. So he’d leant back and watched prides of lions on the prowl and leopards tending to their cubs. It had soothed him in a way he doubted human contact would at the time. 

“Yammy, Llargo?” Ichigo asks as he steps into the room. Llargo turns his head, his grin faltering a little. Rukia flashes her badge as Ichigo does the same. They stand at the foot of his bed, neither of them pulling up chairs to sit.

“Tokyo PD. We’re here to ask a few questions about the shooting you were involved in.”

“I didn’t do it,” he says before either of them gets to ask what he did in the first place. They share a look and Ichigo agrees with Keigo. This bloke isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

“What were you doing in Marunouchi that time of night?” Rukia sweeps in. 

Llargo deadpans, “Walking my dog.”

Ichigo frowns and flips through the folder. It’s mostly theatrics, it wouldn’t say in the file in his hands whether or not Llargo has a dog, they’d have to analyze bank-statements and receipts for that kind of thing. It’s somewhat because Llargo doesn’t strike Ichigo as the person who’d buy a dog at a kennel or a pet-shop, really. Or be conscientious enough to keep one alive.

“A dog?” Ichigo repeats and he can tell Rukia’s seen through his bluff. He picked it up from her, so why wouldn’t she? 

Llargo shifts and Rukia looks up then, “Did you walk your dog into the building?”

“No.”

“Then why did you go into a building that’s been cordoned off by the police?”

“I’m not the one you should be grilling, missy, I was shot! I’m the victim!” he barks. Rukia doesn’t flinch. Neither does Ichigo. Instead, she raises her eyebrow in a way that would have made a lesser man sweat. And really, Llargo is a piece of trash, but he did survive a fall from the third floor, so there’s that.

“Is anybody saying you aren’t?” Ichigo questioned and tilted his head a fraction to the side. Llargo withdrew immediately, looking as if every gear in his head was turning. It was almost too easy this. At least Ishida had had a challenge in Granz, at least he’d known what was going on.

“I’ll repeat my question, then. Why did you go into a building that’s been cordoned off by the police?”

Llargo took his sweet time mulling this one over. And they hadn’t even gotten to the difficult ones yet. 

“Do you not remember, Mr. Llargo?” Rukia asks him.

“I saw someone in there,” Llargo says then, as if he’d just remembered his line in a school play. “I went inside to see what was going on. In some ways, I guess I was doing your job.”

Ichigo and Rukia exchange another look. Llargo’s only digging his own grave, really. Had he been the tenth victim he wouldn’t have happened upon this, the murders had been planned almost scarily well. Neither of them react to the obvious taunt, because they are both fucking professionals and that shit only works in movies.

“So you went inside and what did you find there?” Ichigo asks. 

“I was attacked. Right then and there.”

“In the lobby?” Ichigo frowns and looks at Rukia, and she mirrors his expression. If it hadn’t been because they needed Llargo to tell them about the shooter, he would’ve started laughing now and hauled his ass to jail. Get him another five years for being an absolute idiot.

“No, I fell down the elevator shaft,” he corrects them and sometimes it feels as if he wants to be caught lying.

“Mr. Llargo, what can you tell us about the shooter?”

“He wore a helmet, I didn’t see nothing.”

“He’s a wanted man.” Ichigo hopes this will loosen his tongue enough so that they might get at least a half-assed description.

Llargo laughs then, it’s bombastic and it almost has Rukia jumping from the sheer force of it. He then smiles at them, “That pipsqueak?”

On the TV-screen, a cheetah is chasing a gazelle, turning sharply and sprinting. It leaves a trail of dust in it’s wake, another tail. It’s orange and warm, while the room they’re in is blue and cold. Ichigo wonders what the weather is like in Africa this time of year.

“He did shoot you and let you drop seven meters,” Ichigo reminds him, somewhat absentmindedly. 

“He’s a whelp! I could pick my teeth with his spine,” Llargo speaks through his teeth. And wow, that was a picture Ichigo didn’t need. 

“He still beat you,” Rukia repeats, smiling sweetly and overbearing as if Llargo is stupid for not knowing. He is, but that’s beside the point. It just makes their jobs easier.

Llargo’s all but fuming when he snarls, “I had that little Quincy bitch before he brought a gun to a fistfight. If he hadn’t I would’ve crushed him like an ant!”

Ichigo feels the hair on the back of his neck stand, goose bumps travelling down his arms. Llargo looks positively insane. The light in his eyes shines almost feverishly, and Ichigo can feel Rukia stiffen next to him.   
How the shooter faced this and managed to stand his ground is beyond Ichigo. This man looks terrifying, ready to break your bones with his bare hands and suck the marrow from them in front of you.

The cheetah catches and tears the gazelle. She rips it’s skin and blood flows out. She wastes no time before she begin eating her prey.

Rukia looks to Ichigo, then back and smiles, “Thank you for your time. I think we got all we needed.”

Llargo looks damn proud of himself for one who all but admitted to being the instigator of the conflict. They leave the room without speaking, walk down the hall without doing the same, to the car. It’s only when Rukia keys the ignition that she breathes out, “He gave me the creeps.”

“You and me both,” he leans back and lets her drive.

It’s when they turn back out into traffic, another clusterfuck of cars ahead of them that Rukia frowns.

“Ichigo?” she asks then and he hums in response, “What’s a Quincy?”


	6. Chapter 6

Quincies are incredibly difficult to find, is what they are. 

Ichigo had called Keigo from the car and asked him to dig into it, but here, seven hours later he’s yet to find anything. 

Chad had returned around six, something dark hanging over him. It felt like ominous chalk-drawings on a cave wall. Inoue was gone. It was only because she’d dropped the rose-gold bracelet Shun had given her for their third anniversary that they knew she’d been there and that she hadn’t gone willingly. Besides the hairpins her brother had given her, the bracelet was the only thing she never left home without.

They’d asked CSU to keep them updated. Ichigo didn’t know what else to do. He worked homicides and for once this was a case he desperately didn’t want to handle.

Just this once, he didn’t want this to fall under his jurisdiction.

Ishida had looked at him with careful eyes when they’d returned and when they’d written “Quincy” on the board, under the “Shooter” headline, Ishida had watched him even more attentively. 

Rukia had called Renji and asked him to keep an eye out, maybe see if anybody else knew about the Quincy. Or Quincies. They didn’t know whether or not there would be more of them, if it was this one vigilante that had named himself or if it was an organization. 

Ichigo is sitting in his chair, leaning back, hands folded behind his head. He’s mapped out the ceiling twice over now, wondering what more he can do, if there’s anything he can do before tomorrow. 

It’s odd, he had the same feeling in his stomach as when Rukia had been imprisoned. They were building the case on her behalf, hoping and praying that the witnesses would stay true and wouldn’t be intimidated, that Urahara would hold up his end of the bargain and that Ichigo could pull through and claim some physical evidence in their favor.

He sighs and swallows. 

A page is turned next to him and he peers out of the corner of his eyes. Ishida’s still un-piling and reading. Occasionally he’ll put a file away. He keeps decimating the piles, keeps reading and re-reading. He has six files in front of him and is skimming the seventh. Ichigo would like to know what he’s doing. Somehow, he seems different than from the past month. It’s like a mask of inexperience has fallen away and a new, frightfully competent investigator had appeared. He wonders if it’s what happens when Ishida’s buried in paperwork, he did study law and this seems like something law-students would experience often. He doesn’t like to think of the alternative.

Ishida looks up and meets his eye.

“Hey,” he says softly and relaxes minutely.

“Hey.”

Ichigo barely smiles, but he can see Ishida’s eyes warm at the sight of it.

“About yesterday,” Ichigo starts and Ishida turns his head away, and then looks down into his file.

Ishida sighs, “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not, and it’s fine,” Ichigo says as Ishida looks up, looking to protest. “But it’s important that you understand that we’re responsible for these people. We have to protect them as best we can.”

“I know that,” Ishida bites and then sits back, “I know.”

Ichigo looks at him then. He’s tense and taut and something in the line of his shoulders tells him he should back off. So he does. He turns his eyes back to the ceiling and gives Ishida a moment to regain his footing. He closes his eyes and breathes.

“This job will eat you up if you let it,” he says, quietly.

Ishida doesn’t answer, but Ichigo hears him get up and walk towards him. He opens his eyes and sees Ishida standing over him, looking down at him. Ishida tilts his head a fraction to the side and in the stark light overhead, it’s difficult to see his face.

“Don’t let it then,” he says.

Ichigo swallows.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” he mumbles and in the contre-jour, Ichigo swears he can see a smile there. 

“Let me finish this file,” Ishida says and disappears out of the light. 

 

“I’m not in the mood for sex,” Ishida comments on their way to his apartment. He’s pulling his bike and his nose has turned red. Ichigo has to restrain himself from leaning forward and kissing the tip of it.

“I’ll stay in case you change your mind,” he says, which earns him a fond eye-roll.

Ishida had invited him to his place and Ichigo, dying to see how he lived, had agreed.

The only time he’d even been close had been the night they’d found Takenaka Ken. 

The city’s vibrant this time of night. The neon is stark and warm, like a sun of the night. The air is nibbling and the wind biting, but the clarity and crispness of it is enough to forgive the weather for it’s cold caprice. More importantly, you get a feeling that the city’s alive and teeming with it. Cars are streaming down the road and people are laughing, talking, crying. He looks to his right and sees a couple walking hand in hand.

He looks left where Ishida’s watching the sky. It’s a molten gold tonight. The clouds are thick and low and the lights cast from the city has it look like something straight out of a fairytale. Ishida looks like something straight out of a fairytale. 

He meets Ichigo’s eyes and offers him a smile.

“Why’re you living in the slums?” Ichigo asks him then. He looks fleetingly at Ishida’s hands and damns the bike to Hell. His own are stuffed into his pockets, giving him an air of casual disinterest. He knew if he hunched his shoulders a bit more, he would look secretive. 

He shrugs.

It’s all the answer Ichigo gets before Ishida takes them down a narrow walk and straight onto his street. The streetlight are flickering and Ichigo’s sure that in summer, moths would be flocking to it for comfort.

He locks his bike and they go upstairs. Ishida unlocks his apartment and walks inside, flicking on the light.

Ichigo’s not sure what he imagined, but certainly not this. It’s a mess. Boxes, books and clothes are scattered everywhere. Ishida takes off his coat and throws it on a cardboard box; Ichigo starts to see a pattern emerging. It’s the apartment of someone who barely lives there, and when he does, it’s a break from the world and a place to sleep.

It doesn’t feel lived in, it feels hollow. Something sets him off about this place.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says quietly, stepping out of his shoes. He turns on a floor lamp.

Ichigo deposits his jacket the same place as Ishida and toes off his shoes. The apartment is chilly, it raises the hairs on his arms, but mostly, that’s because of Ishida. He’s standing by the window, the light from the street, the only light at all and he looks so lonely standing there. 

Ichigo joins him and takes his hand. Ishida lets him, even squeezes it a little. Ishida’s building’s on a hill and it elevates the view, laying Tokyo out in front of them. They watch the city for five minutes or something like that. Ichigo folds his arms and turns towards the apartment again. It’s spacious for one person, most likely meant for more. The only warmth in the apartment is from the lamp Ishida lit before. 

The kitchen’s the only place that isn’t stacked high with boxes. There’s a plate and a glass next to the sink, a pot on the stove. Ichigo wonders how much Ishida eats. He never seems to finish his lunches and he throws out half of his dinner whenever they eat together. There’s a first-aid kit on the counter, a picture of Greta Garbo. 

Ichigo looks to Ishida. He’s illuminated by Tokyo and his profile looks to be of marble.

“Do you know what the kabukimono are?” Ishida asks suddenly. Eyes still drawn to Tokyo.

Ichigo follows his eyes, and watches the night unfold, “Can’t say that I do.”

“It’s believed the modern Yakuza sprang from these groups. They were vile, really, but what got me thinking about them was that they wore bright colors and styled their hair weirdly and such.”

Ishida stills and licks his lips. 

“They remind me of Granz and Odelschwanck.”

Ichigo pulls on his hand and Ishida comes to him. He kisses his forehead. Ishida wraps his arms around his waist and nestles closer. There’s something in his breathing, the cadence of it, that puts Ichigo at ease. 

“You’re cold,” he states.

“The night is darkening around me, the wild winds coldly blow; but a tyrant’s spell has bound me, and I cannot, cannot go.”

“You didn’t just come up with that,” Ichigo says.

Ishida huffs, “No, Emily Brontë did.”

They stand there until the moon’s halfway across the sky, before they finally collapse onto the bed. Ishida flinches when he hits the mattress, but it passes so quickly Ichigo almost believes he didn’t see it. 

Ishida wraps his arms around him and falls asleep with his head on Ichigo’s shoulder. Ichigo runs his hands through his hair. The lamp’s still burning when he falls asleep. He can’t bring himself to care.

 

They meet half an hour earlier than usual and pretend they ran into each other outside the lobby. It’s weird having to do this charade, but something akin to a thrill goes down his spine as they walk to the elevator. Ishida rolls his eyes at him, but Ichigo can’t help humming the Mission Impossible theme under his breath. Which earns him yet another, even greater, eyeroll.

The bullpen’s still waking up. Chad’s working Inoue’s disappearance, dark circles already forming under his rich eyes and it pains Ichigo to see. They sit down, Ishida unpacking the three biscuits he bought on the way here. He eats them with impossible grace, considering they’re lathered with chicken salad, tuna and honey. Separately, of course. Only Inoue would ever delight in such a sandwich. Which is why Shun does most of the cooking.

Ichigo swallows and turns to his paperwork. Keigo’s been by, leaving him a note in red glitter-pen, and shaking his head he reminds himself that he’s a professional, even if Keigo insists on buying stationary branded with Monster High (and Ichigo quotes, “It may be a neo-liberal capitalist scheme, but who doesn’t appreciate puns and monsters? Tell me that?”).

The note read, “The plot thickens – call me when you see this, Keigo.”

And being a slave to duty, Ichigo does.

“Did you get my note?” Keigo asks immediately.

“Do you ever sleep?” Ichigo questions, already writing a note to himself that he’ll call Mizuiro and check.

Keigo chuckles darkly, “Sleep is for the dead, Kurosaki-kun!”

“What cup is this?”

There’s a beat.

“Seventh.”

“Oh my God.” 

“You will repeat that when you hear what I’ve found,” he says darkly and in his hyper-caffeinated state it even manages to sound ominous. Ichigo knows he’ll have to ride it out, he can start arguing with Keigo and suddenly they’re discussing the rules of disco without ever having touched upon the subject of the Quincy. And so, Ichigo’ll have to ride the wack-o-train until the point has been reached.

Ichigo taps his pencil, “Hit me.”

“You know I don’t approve of violence unless in the name of revolution, but since it’s metaphorical, I will hit you,” Keigo clears his throat and begins talking a mile an hour. “Seeing as nothing has worked as of yet, and the Trojan has been disabled, I googled the crafty sons of bitches and these are the top five results: Quincy M.E., American television series starring Jack Klugman; Quincy, Massachusetts, starring fuck all; Quincy (Japanese), Yakuza-slayers; an IMDb page for Quincy M.E., American television series starring Jack Klugman and finally images for Quincy which I cannot show you over the phone. Now, which door to open?”

Ichigo takes a deep breath, “I sincerely hope you opened the third,”

“You know me too well, you rascal. I opened the wiki-page on the Japanese Quincy and you know what I found?”

“Hopefully a lead,” he closes his eyes. Most people become energized when they drink coffee, Keigo becomes energized and incredibly ineffective. He once downloaded Rollercoaster Tycoon and built 33 parks within the span of three hours and afterwards had a breakdown because he’d become “his own worst capitalist enemy, are you happy now, Bush?! Are you?!” and proceeded to cry on Mizuiro’s shirt. They had henceforth decided to keep Keigo away from nine consecutive cups of coffee.

Keigo does a drumroll with his fingers, “This is a stub! There’s literally nothing here! They roamed rural Japan in 18th – 19th century, they were out doing business, taking names and then in 1939, suddenly whoops be gone!”

Ichigo opens his eyes and all but shouts, “That’s it?!” 

“That is it.”

He all but groans, “Oh my God.” 

“Told you.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but certainly more than a stub-article from Wikipedia. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Alright. Get some sleep.” He hopes Keigo will. Or else he’ll personally drag Mizuiro from whatever press-conference he’s hosting and force him to put Keigo down. 

“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll keep digging.”

“No, you –“ 

Keigo hangs up and Ichigo sits back in his chair and sighs again for good measure.

Ishida sucks a finger clean from tuna-salad and throws out the rest of them, “Bad news?”

“Depends on your definition. Keigo’s so drugged up on coffee he can barely talk and all we have on the Quincy is a fucking Wikipedia article, so yeah, I’d say it’s pretty bad.” He can feel a headache coming on. He rubs his eyes, hoping he can press the pain out of his eyes. 

“I have an appointment later today with my father, so I’ll have to step out in an hour or so” Ishida says and takes another bite. 

“What kind of an appointment?”

“Ugh, the boring kind. The waste-of-time kind.” Ishida doesn’t seem to be thrilled to say the least.

Ichigo hums. Ishida’s told him very little about his father but from what he can sense, they aren’t exactly close. Whenever he tries asking, Ishida turns his head away and looks out the nearest window. 

Rukia swings around the corner, two cups of Starbucks in her hands. She gives one to Chad and takes a sip of her own. She gives him a look and Ichigo gets up, cracking his neck, “Are we going?”

“Sure,” she answers.

Ishida licks his lips and gives Ichigo a look that feels a lot like goodbye. Ichigo doesn’t think twice about it. 

 

The Shop is buried deep within Fuchu. Something about the temples’ red lacquer and lavishness must have drawn Urahara there. 

Upon entering the Shop, one is greeted immediately by smoke and a heavy fragrance of incense and tea. Patrons are sitting at the bar and at tables, gambling and drinking. The air seems sticky almost and sweaty. You begin questioning your morals when you mingle with the crowd and is easily deceived into believing whatever lies Urahara tells you. The tea’s good though. At least according to the review on TripAdvisor.

Rukia’s at his elbow, scanning the room. Something draws her brows together.

Ichigo looks up and sees Urahara smiling knowingly at them from the bar. He stretches out his arms and beckons them closer. Tessai takes over the bar and keeps an eye on the two youngsters running out the door. No one seems to notice them. The pass Ichigo and Rukia and the girl looks up at them, her eyes huge and frightened. The boy doesn’t have such qualms and pushes her out the door.

“Kurosaki-san!” Urahara says loudly, greeting them with a sly smile and his fan out and about. He looks decadent and ancient in his dark-green kimono and yet incredibly modern with his striped hat. He doesn’t hold out his hand for them to shake. Mostly because Rukia looks ready to bite it off as opposed to give hers freely. 

Instead he leads them out back, into one of the adjoining rooms. It’s traditional, tatami-mats and low tables. He slides the door closed and sits down, gesturing for them to do the same. He pours three cups of what Ichigo knows to be very expensive tea, and smirks. He’s never had tea as good as that he’s had when visiting Urahara.

“What can I help you with?” he asks pleasantly. 

Rukia bristles and Ichigo takes a sip of the tea. He looks expectantly between them and when it becomes obvious that neither of them are going to break the silence, he tuts. There’s something in his way of reading people that makes him impossible to trust. He knows you better than you do by simply glancing at you. It made him a frightfully good cop, a frightfully threatening host.

“Let me guess,” he says, “You’ve come about the Quincy?”

Ichigo straightens and the cup almost slips out of his hands, “You know of the Quincies?”

A smirk and then a full smile, “Rumor has it he got into a fight with Yammy Llargo of all people. And my customers do little else but complain about him.”

“Him?”

“Indeed,” Urahara says and takes a delicate sip of his tea. Ichigo can feel his heart beating faster. Granted, they came to hear about the Chiyoda-murder, but something has his hairs raise up at the mention of the Quincy and the fact that Urahara knows exactly who or what he is. It’s uplifting considering all they had an hour ago was a fucking stub of a Wikipedia page.

“Tell us,” Rukia all but demands, looking somewhat like a bird of prey.

Urahara opens his fan with a flick of the wrist, “Well, well, well. Where to begin?”

His movements slows and the sheen of an entertainer fades. A different man appears then, probably one very similar to the one the NPA discharged. 

“As long as there’s been Yakuza there seems to have been Quincies. They grew out of the samurai traditions, at first rentable as hunters of the kabukimono, later they simply were, money notwithstanding. They formed their own creed throughout the 19th century and when 1914 reared it’s ugly head, they went to war and brought great honor to the military with their sharpshooting abilities.”

Ichigo frowns, tea forgotten.

“You see, the key-point where the Quincy differed from the other, less successful Yakuza hunters, was their specialization with bows and arrows, later rifles and firearms in general, and their dedication to their mission. They were so driven by this “Pride of the Quincy” that they became a Yakuza-organization themselves of sorts, a kumicho at the helm as with traditional Yakuza. But in 1937 the NPA put a stop to it.” 

“How so?” Rukia asks, voice trembling with anticipation.

“The Quincy had become a liability. They thought themselves to be above the law and their numbers had grown as their success in the war had allowed them greater recruitment. In other words, they were becoming as dangerous to the society as the Yakuza. See, the Quincy’s war didn’t end with the extermination of the Yakuza. They began hunting other criminals, executing whoever they found guilty. The government wouldn’t allow this sort of vigilantism and as the body count increased, so did the fear in the streets. Finally, the NPA found a way out of this pickle,” Urahara chuckled and Rukia’s face grows hard. Ichigo swallows in trepidation.

“They decided to put them to good use,” Urahara’s face fell, “They were sent to China to fight the Nationalists there and left to fend for themselves. Most of them died in combat, the rest died in the prison-camps. It was the easiest way to execute that many people without either trial or public knowledge. One death is a tragedy, a million a statistic, as Stalin so eloquently said.”

Neither of them moves. Ichigo can’t imagine war, let alone being left in it to rot. His face must’ve shown his distaste, because Urahara says, “The remaning Quincies weren’t pleased either.”

“What did they do?” Ichigo asks, his heart hammering.

“They disappeared.”

“What?” Rukia exclaims, looking wrought.

Urahara shrugs, “They removed themselves from Tokyo, Kyoto, Okawa, any major city in Japan. According to the esteemed guests of this establishment, they continued fighting the Yakuza as was their creed, but they did so from the bowels of secrecy.”

“How many died in China?” Ichigo tries.

“And how many’s left, you ask? Well, about 40.000 Quincies were believed to have gone to China. I know of maybe five families who remained. But even so, they’ve suffered their losses against the Yakuza. Once they could count on their numbers alone, but since ‘37 they’ve been forced to fight smart, not hard. It’s a transition many didn’t make and they paid the price for it. It’s no more than 15 years ago another Quincy family was wiped out. But to answer your question? My guess would be one.”

“One?” Ichigo repeats.

Rukia leans forward, her hands fisted on her thighs, “Do you have a name?”

“I’m sorry. Not even the people frequenting knows that. When they drowned themselves in the shadows, they took every trace of themselves along.”

They sit in silence as Urahara calls in Tessai to give them another pot of tea, since this one has gone cold and dreary. He and Rukia doesn’t look at each other. Ichigo doesn’t know what he’ll see in her face and he’s not sure he wants to know. She has a harder time accepting to fallacies of the government, the NPA or her superiors then Ichigo’s ever had. Her loyalty’s unwavering but blinding.

“Is there perhaps anything else you’d like to know?” Urahara asks then. Ichigo had forgotten how keen his eyes could be, how sharp his observations. The smile on his lips tells them he already knows the answer.

Rukia sighs, “18 years ago, an old man was killed in Chiyoda. It would have been around the time you worked for the NPA,” she begins and Urahara’s eyes are shining already, something like regret in his eyes.

“I remember. We orphaned a child that night,” he says matter-of-factly. He blows on his tea and takes a sip.

Rukia frowns, “What do you mean? His son was the witness?”

“No, his grandson. He would’ve been about ten years old.”

He’s grown old, suddenly. There’s a weight to his shoulders that Ichigo recognizes and the tilt of his head suggests he remembers this case as if it was yesterday the blood had flowed in Chiyoda.

“What happened to him?” Rukia asks. Her eyes are drawn and her hands are bloodless and white.

Urahara shakes his head, “He grew up in witness protection. His father moved them to Tokyo and fought to the best of his legal abilities to keep us at an arm’s length. We saw that boy grow up …” he pauses and takes a sip of tea, “when he allowed us, he became apt in the art of losing a tail,” he adds, somewhat fondly, yet irritated. “And when he turned 20, he declined the protection and then I don’t know what happened. Last I heard he studied law.”

A shiver runs down Ichigo’s spine and he exchanges a look with Rukia, “Do you happen to remember the name of the witness? The boy?”

He prays, crosses his fingers, anything that will persuade faith otherwise, to let the name be anything but what he fears it will be. He hopes he won’t recognize the name as one he’s spoken softly and sighed, one he hasn’t thought of often and one that doesn’t sound like rain in spring. He keeps himself from folding his hands.

“Ishida. Ishida Uryuu. His grandfather’s name was Ishida Soken,” Urahara answers, unawares that Ichigo’s world is caving in on itself. His heart’s caving in, his breath is hurting, his chest tight and locked. 

Rukia doesn’t look at him then and that’s the greatest gift she’s ever given him.

“His father runs Blue Cross Security on the other end of town,” he adds and Ichigo swallows. 

“Blue Cross Security?” Rukia repeats forcefully, because of course. 

“The very same,” Urahara’s mask is back and he smiles.

Ichigo gets up, his knees weak and shaking. Rukia follows him and smiles at Urahara, “Thank you for your help. It’s very much appreciated.”

“But not free, Kuchiki-san,” he admonishes. “I expect my usual payment in two weeks.”

She nods and leads Ichigo out the room. The Shop is loud and boisterous, people are shouting and several health-code violations are taking place, but all Ichigo hears is the roar of his thoughts collapsing.

 

They’re in the car and before Rukia can say anything, he calls Keigo.

Keigo answers before the first ring has ended, “Good thing I’m not sleeping now, huh?”

“Keigo, give me everything you have on Ishida.” He’s clipped and dead-sounding, even to himself.

There’s a beat, “Four eyes?” Then he catches on, “He’s our witness?”

Ichigo’s silence is answer enough it seems.

“Sure, give me a minute,” he answers, sobered and serious, and hangs up.

Rukia gives him a sidelong glance and starts the car. They pull out of the alley and into traffic. She chooses to stay quiet, which is one of the reasons she’s the best. 

 

Ten minutes later Keigo calls them back.

“How do you want it?”

Ichigo sighs, “Just give it to me.” There’s nothing Keigo can say that could possibly make this worse. He puts it on speaker and puts it in the cup-holder.

“Alright, here it is. Ishida Uryuu, 27 years old, born in Shizuoka to Ishida Ryuuken and Kanae, maiden name Katagiri. He was enrolled in an expensive Tokyo private-school and as such he spent five days a week in Tokyo, living with his grandparents. At age 9, his grandfather was murdered. On paper, nothing suggests Ishida ever entered WITSEC. He continued studying in Tokyo, continued doing archery in his free-time, won a few championships there, and then his mother died in a home invasion. His father moved them to Tokyo, where he funded Blue Cross Security. When he was 18 he graduated high school with honors and grades that could take him anywhere. He spent a year in Europe on exchange and returned to study law at Tokyo University. He dropped out his fifth year, 24 years old, and began a bachelor in Criminology. The last year of it, he did while training at the Academy. Seriously, if I had his kind of dough, I would be living the high life, Rollercoaster Tycoon Reality Edition. Otherwise, there’s nothing noteworthy there.”

“That doesn’t sound nefarious,” Rukia comments

Then he says, “Wait. He was arrested for possession a month before he quit college. He made bail and the arrest was expunged due to potential and a later hearing where he and a character-witness convinced the board he was fully rehabilitated and such a stain would hurt his future. Damn right it would, if it hadn’t been expunged he wouldn’t have made it into the Academy.”

“Okay, nothing else?” Rukia asks. Ichigo sighs. Sometimes he hates being lieutenant.

“Try Ishida Ametatsu,” he suggests. Rukia frowns at him and he explains, “The kanji for his name can also be read like that.”

Keigo hummed three notes in staccato and held the last note before saying, “And there’s a reason why you made lieutenant, Ichigo.”

“What did you find?”

“Ishida Ametatsu owns an apartment in Sarugakucho and has several bank accounts tied to his name, none of them accessible by anyone but Ishida himself. The expenses are limited, an apartment in the slums, a Glock 17, a Honda NM4 Vultus, a Sig Sauer 223, a few compound bows and a rather terrifying assortment of guns and rifles besides that. From my vast experience with paper-trails and virtual footprints, I’d like to make an educated guess to say that this Ishida Ametatsu is a strawman.” There’s a few clicking sounds as Ichigo’s trying to gather his thoughts. “Oh, at least he has licenses for the guns and rifles.”

Ichigo can barely breathe. He can feel his eyes burn looks out the window.

“Thanks, Keigo.” Rukia says and hangs up. Ichigo can feel her looking at him and scrambling around, trying to find the best way to break the subject. 

They’re headed to Blue Cross Security. He just watches the city pass them by and clenches his jaws.

“You didn’t know,” Rukia tries.

Ichigo leans his head on the glass, “I should have.”

She looks as if she wants to argue, but doesn’t. Instead she parks the car in front of the Blue Cross Headquarters and turns off the car.

 

They only bother with pulling their badges because the receptionist looks about two seconds away from stopping them. They ask where to find Ishida. They ride the elevator up, listening again to Rachmaninoff’s 2nd symphony in E minor. Ichigo’s heart is racing. He breathes deep, clenches and unclenches his hand. He can’t stop fidgeting. 

On the eighth floor they get out and walk towards the conference room.

The glass walls hide nothing. It is indeed Ishida, their Ishida, his Ishida, inside. Some part of Ichigo had hoped they would be wrong and that he wouldn’t be sitting in that conference room, his legs crossed, and frowning. The man Ichigo had seen those three or four weeks ago now, is standing at the head of the table, leaning forwards, looking to be talking calmly. He knows why he was so familiar, now. It makes his stomach twist. He really, really, should’ve known. Honda is in there as well. He will interrupt Ishida whenever he speaks, making him close his eyes and take a deep breath. He then sneers something and it has Honda recoiling and his father looking pleased, yet tense.

As they’re nearing the conference room, Honda spots them but says nothing. If anything, he looks smug. 

Ishida’s talking now. It looks loud. It is loud. They catch the tail of what he’s saying. It sounds like fire and venom, it sounds like truth and that’s something he’s starting to doubt ever crossed the other’s lips in his company.

“ … will do? I don’t want any part in it, I never will. I don’t want to take advantage of people’s misguided fear and profit from it! You built it, you get to tear it down. I don’t want it,” he bites as they walk through the door. 

“I merely suggest you reconsider you actions before –“

“Honda-san!” the elder Ishida says. He turns his head and looks at them, changing his tone, “We have company. These matters are best discussed in privacy. Wouldn’t you agree, Uryuu?”

Ishida looks down into the table, “On principle, you know I don’t.”

The room is singing like a wire. Ishida’s shoulders are tense and it’s only when he meets Ichigo’s eyes that he feels he can breathe again, and oh God it hurts. It’s like drawing air into your lungs on a crisp winter-morning. At his back, Rukia steps up next to him.

“I believe they’re here to see you, Uryuu,” the father remarks and looks to him. The hoarfrost in Ishida’s eyes almost sent shivers down Ichigo’s spine if it wasn’t because he knew his and Rukia’s eyes did much the same. 

“I expected them earlier,” is his only response. Something in his tone of voice suggests a certain mischief and yet, incomprehensible exhaustion and sadness.

Ishida gets up, impossible graceful and walks around his father, not even looking to him. He comes to stand in front of Ichigo and he reaches into his pocket and draws out Ichigo’s cuffs. Ichigo swallows. The night still seems to linger in them and Ishida delicately locks himself up.

“Is that really necessary, Uryuu?” his father asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Ishida doesn’t looks at him, only fixes the handcuffs, “I do so love to disappoint you.”

“I’m aware,” he clicks his tongue, “Honda-san, file the documents for later. We’ll have to reschedule this meeting seeing as my son has gone and gotten himself arrested.”

Ishida doesn’t even flinch at the words. 

He exits the room, looking every bit dignified, like a martyr going to the fire. Ichigo grabs his wrist hard, slowing him down and all but guides him roughly to the elevator. Rukia coolly thanks the two men for their cooperation and follows. It feels more like a funeral wake as opposed to an arrest. None of them speaks as they ride down the elevator. Rachmaninoff’s 2nd hasn’t even ended in the space it took them to get him. Somehow, Ichigo supposes he expected Ishida to fight and refuse the allegations, to argue and shout and beg for Ichigo to understand. But he’d surrendered completely.

They both look straight ahead, as if Ishida’s sparing Ichigo from meeting his eyes. Ichigo’s not sure whether or not he should be grateful.

They pass the lobby where the receptionist stop them to tell Ishida that the meeting’s been rescheduled for next Monday. Ishida sighs and asks if it’s final. She confers the question to his father and nods yes. She adds, “He also says, this occupation is a waste of time.”

“My time to waste, is it not?” Ishida smiles darkly and the receptionists eyes the handcuffs. She smiles sadly and nods then, “Take care, Ishida-san. We’ll see you next Monday.”

Ichigo yanks him towards the door then and pushes him through it. Rukia unlocks the car and Ishida looks at it, eyebrow raised. He then edges into the backseat as best he can and Ichigo gets in without giving him as much as a second glance. Rukia starts the car and they pull out of the parking lot and into the traffic. Not for the first time, Ichigo wonders how the world keeps turning when his own his so suddenly crumbling beneath his feet. If it had only been his feelings that were tied up in this, his libido, it would’ve sucked, yeah, but not like this. No, because Ishida had bewitched him body and soul. He trusted him. 

Past-tense. 

He doesn’t anymore.

 

The walk through the precinct had been a calm one. The journalists camping outside hadn’t even glanced at them as they brought Ishida inside. Most likely, it was because Ishida didn’t carry himself as a criminal. You didn’t notice the handcuffs because he held his shoulders like an innocent man. 

Chad stares. Mizuiro lowers his phone minutely and dismisses whoever’s on the other end politely. The entire bullpen goes silent as they pass through. Ishida doesn’t look ashamed, doesn’t look cowed. Instead he seems to stare them all in the eye and daring them to speak, to throw the first stone. 

Where Granz had been hunched, Ishida is erect, proud almost, like he’s ready to die for his cause.

Ichigo opens the door into interrogation and locks Ishida inside. He just stands there for a minute. Breathing.

“This has gone tits up, huh?” Renji joins him at the window, arms crossed.

Ichigo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t feel like he can. He’s furious. So incensed he can barely uncoil his hands. Renji takes one look at him and nods, “Yeah.”

Ishida walks to the chair opposite the mirror and pulls it out. He sits down in it and settles in it, like a man settling in his noose. He leans his arms on the table and folds his hands. His eyes are fastened on his hands.

“So, what’s the deal?”

“He’s our witness,” Ichigo answers quietly.

Renji’s frowns deepens and he looks at Ishida, reconsiders him. 

Rukia joins them, goes to stand in the space between them. None of them speak. They watch him. 

“Who’s first?” she asks. 

Something cold goes through Ichigo. He knows as well as she does that they won’t be breaking Ishida on their first try. It sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. 

“I’ll go,” Ichigo answers. She gives him a short look, teeming with warnings, but doesn’t stop him. 

He opens the door and Ishida looks up. Even now, the light doesn’t seem to hurt him. Ichigo sits down, and he can feel the remainder of his heart incinerate by the fire roaring in his blood. Then he looks up, and then the rest of his life goes to Hell. 

Good, he feels like burning.

“Ishida Uryuu,” he says the name as if he’s never said it before, lets the sound of it be foreign on his tongue. Ishida flinches. Ichigo doesn’t react to that. “You’re aware of your rights?”

Ishida shakes his head incredulous, “I did pre-law.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes, I know my rights,” he agrees and straight ahead, at nothing it seems.

“The night Llargo Yammy was shot, remind me where were you?”

Ishida freezes over then and Ichigo can tell this will be a battle of wills. The blue of his eyes seems impenetrable, as if trying to walk on the ocean floor would be easier to do. 

“You know where I was,” he answers coolly. 

Ichigo doesn’t move an inch. “I said to remind me.”

Ishida seems to consider him then, weighing his options and watching him like he’s trying to figure out what riddle Ichigo wants him to answer. 

“And what the night Nishimura Shiori was murdered?”

Ishida narrows his eyes, “What am I charged with?”

At this, Ichigo smiles grimly. “Accessory to murder at the very least, nine homicides at the worst.”

Something changes in him then and if he froze over before, an ice-winter takes hold of him now, snow and tempest at his brow and the pull of his mouth. 

“Do you want a lawyer?” Ichigo offers, a curtesy really.

He shakes his head again and when he stills, he stares at nothing. Ichigo wants to reach out and brush his cheek and recognizes this as incredibly stupid. He swallows hard and draws in a breath. Even though Ishida doesn’t deserve it, Ichigo wants to protect him. He wants to haul his ass out of whatever shithole he’s landed himself in and straighten him out. He wants too many things but can demand none of them.

“Your grandfather was murdered,” he says, hoping to rouse him. His forehead crinkles a little, his eyes withdrawing. “And you witnessed it.”

No response.

Ichigo shakes his head, “Ishida, unless you talk to me, I can’t help you.”

“What, help you, help me?” he mocks and the sheen is gone. Whatever sentiments he had regarding his grandfather, they’ve been buried deep again. Something ugly flashes across his face and Ichigo recognizes it at contempt.

“I’m not one of the low-lives you usually deal with.” Ishida turns away again and Ichigo’s sure that if he could, he’d cross his arms. It hits him how Granz said something very similar.

Ichigo gets up and leaves. At the door, he turns and says, “I’ll be back.”

He almost hopes Ishida would give him a scathing “Can’t wait,” instead he gets cold silence. He’d take the scathing remark any day, the silence breaks his heart.

 

Renji goes next. He shouts, tries intimidating Ishida, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t even flinch when Renji appears a centimeter from his ear and calls him a coward. Not like he had when Ichigo’d said his name like they were strangers.

It’s 15 minutes before Renji changes tactics, “You know our game, I’ll stop playing my part.”

“Not for my sake,” Ishida answers and looks at his hands. 

“Why did you call Kurosawa?” Renji tries and looks at him, “To warn him? You knew he was about to die and whatever was left of your loyalty towards him had you do it?”

Ishida snorts and shakes his head.

“You were arrested for possession when you were interning with him,” Renji states.

Ishida freezes over, slowly but surely, he almost seems to stop breathing.

“You took an arrest for him,” Renji continues, “I’d say that’s a fairly loyal thing to do.”

“I took heroin from him, not arrests,” the smile is ugly and lathered in poison. Ichigo feels his heart break with the spreading of that smile. It’s something he’d never want to see on anyone’s face, especially not Ishida’s, because he knew how lovely his actual smiles were. He steeled himself.

Renji clicks his tongue and then folds his hands, “What’re you saying, Ishida?”

“If you don’t know, it’s not worth telling you.”

 

Mizuiro’s leaning against the wall, looking between Rukia and Ichigo. Keigo’s pacing. Chad’s standing next to Ichigo, though this time, they seem to support each other as opposed to Ichigo leaning on Chad. It’s a terrifying thing to know that the one constant of your world is relative. 

“I can’t believe it,” Mizuiro shakes his head. 

Keigo stops for a minute, then he begins pacing again. 

“Urahara’s rarely mistaken,” Renji says and looks over his shoulder into interrogation. Ishida hasn’t moved since Ichigo was in there.

“I’ll go next,” Rukia says and looks at Ichigo. He nods. 

 

Rukia walks through the door, carefully, head tilted and a careful smile. She has two files under her arms and she sits down, pushing them aside and trying to catch his eyes. She leans into his field of view.

“Hey,” she says.

A small smile tugs at his lips. Ichigo sees it for what it is. They’re playing each other.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather.” She sounds sincere. Ichigo’s always admired her for her ability to do that. 

Ishida chuckles. “I’m sure. So was Urahara-san.”

“Urahara-san?” Rukia repeats innocently.

“Don’t bother. He texted me after you left.”

At first, Ichigo wants to wring Urahara’s neck. The feeling then transforms into bewilderment, because why wouldn’t Ishida run when he knew they were coming for him. 

“Why would he do that?” Rukia questions, same tone, different meaning.

“Ask Urahara-san.” He shrugs and fiddles with the cuffs. It’s the only sign of nerves they’ve seen so far, and Ichigo wouldn’t put it past Ishida to do it on purpose. It’s dizzying playing this game when your opponent knows the rules as well as you do. Suddenly, the usual tricks doesn’t work.

Rukia taps her index-finger to the table, “How old were you when they put you in WITSEC?”

“I don’t believe I ever was,” Ishida smiles. “I daren’t think about what could’ve happened if I had.”

Ichigo doesn’t miss the bite of the last sentence. He exchanges a look with Renji.

“He’s still bitter,” Renji remarks.

“But not angry,” Ichigo frowns, “He seems clarified.”

“Drop the act, Urahara-san told us the story,” Rukia says, a sudden hardness in her voice. He can’t see her face, but he knows what he would see if he could. Splintering ice and cold seeping from every pore. Greater men have broken under that stare.

“If you’d paid attention, you’d know I had. I was never in WITSEC. I never relocated, I never changed my name. I did have a pair of asinine police officers dragging at my heels all throughout my teenage years, but I wasn’t in WITSEC. Ryuuken thought it would kill me. Same way it killed my grandfather, who you keep bringing up.” He looks directly to the glass then. He doesn’t stare directly at Ichigo, but it’s close enough. He almost wants to step into the gaze until he sees Mizuiro’s already there. 

“My grandfather was an idealist, in every sense of the word. And he was killed because of that. Poor police-work notwithstanding,” Ishida tips his head to the side.

“He was Yakuza,” Rukia supplies, then frowns, “He was the Kumicho?”

Ishida smirks, but it’s a hateful thing and Ichigo can almost feel his heart stop. 

“A dead one,” Ishida says, but it’s half-hearted.

“What does that make you?”

“The next in line,” he says easily, as if discussing the weather.

Rukia leaves the room ten minutes later.

 

“So the grandfather’s a dead end,” she says, scowling. Ishida’s taken the files and started pushing them around. If it wasn’t because he’d written them himself, they wouldn’t let him. It’s the case-notes he’s typed throughout the month. It’s also a way to check his nerves. Considering he didn’t hesitate taking them, Ichigo would say he’s pretty damn calm. Rukia shakes her head angrily.

“Nothing in the way he spoke about him was vengeful. If anything, he seemed like it was a drag that we kept mentioning him,” she expounds and crosses her arms, looking pensive. “I was so sure that was our motive.”

Ichigo nods. Then he remembers, “Get the files from his desk. The little pile, around ten files.”

Mizuiro nods and hurries off. Keigo’s stopped pacing and is leaning on his shoulder, next to the window. Between him and Ichigo, they’re framing the portrait of Ishida’s interrogation and Ichigo shakes his head. 

“If revenge isn’t our motive, then what?”

“I don’t know.” Rukia mirrors him and comes to stand at the window next to Renji. 

Renji clicks his tongue, “Besides motive, what else might tie Ishida to these crimes?”

“He knew the 6th victim, hated the 6th victim,” Ichigo says and corrects himself. 

“He has knowledge of police procedures and could’ve covered his tracks forensically. He has the intelligence and patience for these crimes, ties with Blue Cross Security. I don’t know, it could be him. We’ll just have to find out why then. Without a confession we don’t have anything but circumstantial.”

“Why would he lead us to his grandfather’s case?” Keigo asks.

Ichigo shrugs, “It’s a game, isn’t it?”

“Winning isn’t fun if no one knows,” Rukia agrees as Mizuiro returns. He’s carrying ten files. He hands them out with practiced efficiency and they all have two, except Mizuiro and Chad. 

Ichigo opens his file and finds Nnoitra Galga’s ugly mug staring back up at him. A yellow post-it note is taped onto the inside of the manila-folder. Takenaka Ken 5 it reads. He frowns and opens the other. A man with a predatory smile, filed teeth and electric blue hair named Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez looks up at him. Another post-it note was stuck to the front page, this one reading Sato Hikaru 6, the first victim.

Ichigo isn’t sure what circle of Hell Ishida found him in. Jaegerjaquez read as a psychopath on speed. He walked in gore and blood to the knees, grinning all the while. He’d been arrested once, vehicular manslaughter and he’d lost an arm in the crash. He now had a prosthesis, though this didn’t seem to slow him down. Something in his eyes told Ichigo he’d love nothing more than to die as a means of suicide by cop.

Ichigo swallows and deepens his scowl, “I have Galga and a kabukimono-wannabe named Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, a post-it note in Galga’s file says Takenaka Ken and the number 5 and the one in Jaegerjaquez’ says Sato Hikaru and 6.”

“Odelschwanck and a bloke named Coyote Stark,” Renji replies and holds up Stark’s picture. His hair’s brown and shoulder-length, his eyes are drooping and he has a goat-tee. “He looks normal, but apparently he’s fresh out of a psych.-ward. Apparently, he has an imaginary daughter and it was she who asked him to kill 32 people in a mall in Toyama. I have post-it notes as well, Sato Jiro, 3 and Nishimura Shiori, 1 accordingly,” Stark doesn’t necessarily look like a mass-murdering fucktard, but Ichigo’s been wrong before. Quite recently even.

Rukia shakes her head, “I have Baraggan Louisenbairn. He’s a known kumicho, neck deep in everything from prostitution to drugs. He’s pretty old school, it seems he’s been arrested for making a client “sleep with the fishes”, as cliché as that may be. The post-it note says Kurosawa Isamu, 2. I’ve also been blessed with Aaroniero Arruruerie, 9. He’s a cheery fellow, he’s been arrested for cannibalism, mmm, and he also enjoys stabbing people with needles, because according to the post-it, he did Odelschwanck in.”

Mizuiro’s about to open his mouth, but Keigo beats him to it, saying, “I drew Granz, that fucker, and an emo-goth dude named Ulqiorra Cifer. As you can see he’s had teardrops tattooed on his face, or rather, turquoise stripes, because tears would be too gangsta. The only reason we have a file on him is because he hangs out with Yammy Llargo and has subsequently been arrested with him, if just once for arson. Granz’ post-it note says Yamada Aeko, who he admitted to killing and the numero 8, and Cifer’s says Fujioka Hiroko, one of our scrambled victims and the number 4. I don’t know about you, but could a pattern be emerging?”

“I have Zommari Rureaux. He’s been arrested for trafficking and smuggling. Post-it note says Tanaka Shichiro, 7,” Chad says. 

Mizuiro takes a breath and says then, “Left is Yammy Llargo.”

“And?”

“There’s no note.”

Ichigo frowns, “Why wouldn’t he write the last note?”

And then it hits him.

 

“Take off your shirt,” Ichigo commands when he enters. 

Ishida looks up at him, one brow arched high, “Excuse me?”

“Take off your shirt,” he repeats and comes to loom over the table. 

“And what do you expect to see, Lieutenant?” It’s enunciated so sharply it could draw blood if wielded correctly. Their eyes meet and it’s electricity right then and there. It sends shivers down his spine and raises the hair on his arms. He stands his ground and Ishida does the same.

“Either a number or a dragon. Either way you’re the key to this, aren’t you?” Ichigo begins circling around the table and Ishida does the same, keeping his distance. Ichigo can practically see him thinking. It had hit Ichigo like a shit-ton of bricks outside. Either Ishida didn’t put the name on the note because it hadn’t happened yet and he didn’t know, or he knew and didn’t want to expose himself as the tenth victim, or he was one of them and carried a number like they did, the heir to Odelschwanck’s 3.

“So I’m either a member of a cabal of evil of I’m the tenth victim?”

Ichigo can tell he’s weighing his case and trying to buy himself time while he does.

“Either you’re one of them and you can help us find them, or you’re in league with the victims and you can tell us what you have in common with them. Stupidity is unbecoming of you.”

Ishida has his back to the mirror then and sighs, “My choices are rather limited.”

Ichigo takes another step and Ishida mirrors him. They’re both in profile to the mirror. He stares down Ishida for what seems like an eternity. He gives Ishida the time he needs to turn this over. He lets him think under the pretense of a staring contest, but he knows neither of them are invested in it. Instead, he studies the way Ishida is leaning against the table. It’s strange how, despite being left-handed, Ishida leans on his right. Really strange, actually, because Ichigo knows he even sleeps on his left side.

Then Ishida moves and slowly raising his hands to unbutton his shirt. There’s nothing sexual about it. He opens one button at a time and Ichigo holds his breath, because in spite of all his bravado he has no idea what he’s going to see on Ishida’s back and even less what he wants to see. A death sentence or a stamp of the executioner. 

Ishida slips out of the shirt and removes the undershirt. There’s a grimace and then it’s gone. 

Ichigo’s breath catches when he sees why. Ishida’s ribcage is bruised, blue and purple, still fresh and tender. He’s tied them, so Ichigo can only assume they’re either pressed or bruised. He hopes Ishida hasn’t been stupid enough to walk around with a broken rib. 

He huffs, “You should see the other guy.” And something tells Ichigo he already has.

He then turns, slowly. The light catches something white on his back. It’s almost impossible to see. Ishida’s skin is pale, the ink of the tattoo is white. He comes closer, the motif becoming clearer and clearer. A dragon, wrapped in clouds and chrysanthemum, is twisting it’s way up his back. It’s beautiful. Ichigo recognizes the hand that did it. He only inks Yakuza, more specifically, kumichos.

And then once again, it clicks. 

“You’re the Quincy,” he states.

Ishida pulls the undershirt down and puts his shirt back on and doesn’t turn around until every button has been done up. He looks tired and relieved.

“You grandfather was a Quincy too,” Ichigo continues. “An idealist.”

“You’re on a roll.”

Ichigo sits down and lets Ishida do the same. “You threw Llargo down the elevator shaft.”

“To be fair, he was going to kill me,” Ishida says and runs a hand through his hair.

“How did you get the drop on him? None of the other victims had a chance.”

It’s odd how complacent Ishida suddenly is. As if the fight went out of him the minute he no longer has any secrets to keep. He even breathes easier now, softly cradling his side with his right hand. It’s like the mask came off and Ichigo marvels at how much it feels like looking in a mirror. 

“I think my ties with the police played a big role.” And another shiver, because Ichigo understands what Ishida’s inferring. “That and Llargo’s a loudmouth. Urahara texted me and told me he’d been by. I asked if he could circulate a rumor that I’d be investigating Takenaka’s death. Idiot fell for it.”

A beat and then he adds, with a lazy smirk and a roll of his eyes, “Allegedly.”

Ichigo frowns, “You’re close with Urahara-san?”

“We both work outside the system. Being enemies seems to be a waste of time.”

Ichigo nods. “One last thing. Why’re you being targeted?” 

Ishida looks up at him then, truly looks at him and then he shifts his eyes to the corner of the room.

 

Ichigo steps out a moment after. Rukia’s by him immediately, “I’ll go push him about the files.”

He nods and she disappears inside.

Renji looks at him and goes closer, “How did you know?”

He doesn’t know. It had hit him, divine inspiration, an epiphany. Who’s he to say how the universe works? So he keeps his response to a shaking of his head and Renji huffs, “Classic Ichigo.”

And he wasn’t wrong. Ichigo had solved many cases by listening to his gut and his instincts. It was correct, more often than not. It was that sure-as-stone belief that saw him through some of the shittiest periods of his life. When Rukia had been on trial, it had been that conviction that had him stand by her to the bitter end. It was that conviction that now has him narrow his eyes and look hard at Ishida.

He holds himself like a man at a confessional, something dignified in his poise that let them know they didn’t break him, he gave this information freely. It has Ichigo frown and say, “Why’s he telling us this?”

“Because we broke him?” Renji supplies.

Chad shakes his head, “We didn’t though. I know what you mean,” he adds to Ichigo.

“How did you connect these people with the murders?” Rukia asks him. They all turn to the room and listens. She’s spread out the folder in front of him, pointing with a pen to the post-it notes. 

“I knew they were involved the minute we identified Granz,” he says. 

“How so?” Rukia pursues him. 

Ishida drags Llargo’s file closer and inspects it. He runs a finger down the page and then takes a breath, “Six years ago, the Yakuza restructured. They gathered under one kumicho. These ten are his … they call themselves Espada, they’re his ten knights, so to speak. Some of them are kumichos in their own right, some of them are loners, this dumbass, for example.” He pushes Llargo’s file away and leans back, eyes on the files still. “And they all happen to be clients of Kurosawa.”

“You interned with him because of that?”

Ishida shakes his head, “Called him because of that.” 

Ichigo swallows. While Rukia, Mizuiro and himself had given Ishida shit for not picking up his phone, he’d been nursing bruised ribs he’d gotten while pursuing a lead over three years old. Ishida couldn’t promise himself away, because he was already dedicated to another walk of life. 

“Six years ago, Asano pulled a move that undid everything Urahara-san had worked on. I’d been hunting for about a year before Urahara-san got a hold of me. He tried to contain the damage done, but we’re two people with a few contacts. We’ve spent these last six years shoveling his shit and in doing so …” he shrugs the last part, as if they can fill in the blanks themselves.

Rukia taps her fingers, “What?”

Ishida lifts his eyes to the camera hanging in the corner and stares directly into it, as if he sees something there. He doesn’t answer and Ichigo swallows hard. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Renji asks and crosses his arms.

“Why he tells us this in the first place,” Ichigo says. He moves towards the door and opens it without ceremony, marching directly in. He puts his hands on the table and leans forward, all but looming over Ishida. The other looks at him, something like a hint of a smirk on his mouth, he’s figured Ichigo’s play. He’s positioned himself between Ishida and the camera, looking like he’s going for the throat, which in some ways, he is.

“Why did you become a police officer?” he asks him and locks eyes with Ishida.

“It’s the family business,” he says under his breath, “To catch a rat, become a rat yourself.”

Ichigo’s breath catches in his throat, “Someone here?”

Ishida shakes his head and points his eyes to Rukia. 

“Organized Crime?”

He nods once.

“Who?” Ichigo knew his time would soon be up. They wouldn’t be able to excuse it with a staring contest much longer.

Ishida shakes his head and then mimics writing. Ichigo huffs, “Where did you take her?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that!” he replies just as agitated.

“You’re telling me Chiyoda’s an accident?” he continues and circles back to Rukia and stands, arms folded.

Ishida snorts and shakes his head, “I’m telling you Chiyoda’s a message.”

“Saying what?”

Something changes in Ishida’s eyes and Ichigo swallows. He’s seen it before, in moonlight operas between his sheets, something dangerously close to the heart. Ishida holds his gaze, “Back off.”

 

When Ichigo and Rukia leaves, Ichigo’s gotten Ishida a block of paper to write his confession on. He all but drags Rukia out of there. She protests with every fiber of her body, but the looks on his face must’ve persuaded her, because after exchanging silent threats, she follows.

“What was that about?” she asks, deadly quiet. 

Chad suddenly gets his attention, “Yeah?”

“Ichigo!” Rukia sneers and he sighs, signaling for Chad to continue.

“CSU found out what the chemicals in Yamada’s lab were used to make.”

“And?” His heart is beating and fluttering like a drum signaling war.

Chad looks conflicted and says, “They believe it’s C4.”

Ichigo doesn’t hear Rukia swear or Renji shout in disbelief. He doesn’t register Mizuiro asking Chad if he’s sure, doesn’t hear Keigo verbally shake his head. All he hears is the sound of every detail snapping into place and forming a complete puzzle. 

Without a word, he hurries to the bullpen, he has to see it with his own eyes. 

They follow him, like they always do. They gather around him as he connects every last dot of the picture, the masterpiece really, because who would’ve thought? 

“Ichigo?”

“The week’s up today,” Ichigo mumbles and looks at the transcript from the last tape. He pushes past them.

The next he does is activate the fire alarm.

What happens next is pure chaos. 

He hurries Rukia and Chad along, shouts for Mizuiro and Keigo to move along.

“Ichigo, what’s going on?”

“The Grand Finale,” he says as their co-workers all move together out of the building. “And then we go out with a bang.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you mean?” Rukia says tersely as they walk down the stairs, forming the back.

“We’ve been asking ourselves the entire time, what does a parking guard, a city planner, a chemist, a mechanic, a known Yakuza lawyer, a nurse, a car dealer and an insurance broker slash money laundress have to do with each other?” Ichigo’s thoughts are racing. He knows he’s right, he just knows. Now he just has to formulate himself as well. He stops and turns to Rukia pausing her there, “If we know Yamada Aeko was making C4 where does that leave the rest of them?”

He can practically see the gears turning in Rukia’s head. Then her eyes widen and her mouth falls open, “Oh my God.”

They start down the stairs again. Chad has stopped and is waiting for them, “What’s going on?”

“Car bombs,” Rukia answers him. “They’ve been making car bombs.”

“They needed Yamada Aeko to make the C4 itself, they bought the cars from Tanaka Shichiro with money laundered by Fujioka Hiroko, most likely with IDs from her clients. Takenaka Ken fitted them with the explosives.” 

Chad frowns but follows. Ichigo takes over, “They needed Sato Hikaru to get the cars where they needed to go and his father to find the best target possible.”

“You think they’re coming here?”

“We haven’t been able to park the last week,” Rukia says and looks between them. 

“We’ll go out with a bang, he said and Keigo thought Sato Hikaru worked with a subcontractor to our parking service,” Ichigo nods and adds, “Granz had the plans to the Keishicho lying about. Which leads us to Kurosawa Isamu, they needed his contacts.”

“And Nishimura?” Chad asks.

“My best guess would be getting the botulin,” Ichigo replies. 

Rukia pushes open the door to the lobby, “Why would they do this? What has normal people do something like this? They had to know what they were doing!”

Ichigo doesn’t know, he shakes his head. Then Chad says, “The money. They were all in financial trouble of one kind or the other.”

“It never seizes to amaze me what people will do for money,” he mutters and shakes his head.

“Ichigo, wait!”

Ichigo turns and sees Rukia stand by the elevator, “Who orchestrated all this?”

And his heart drops to the ground, because the one person who knows is still cuffed and locked in an interrogation room on the 5th floor probably wondering why the fire alarm’s going off. “Shit!”

He storms past Rukia and takes the stairs two at the time.

“Ichigo! What’re you doing!?” she shouts at him.

He turns to yell over his shoulder, “Get out of here! Call Urahara and find out if he knows!”

There’s no answer, so Ichigo assumes she’s on the job. His heart’s in his throat and he can barely grab the railing because his hands are shaking so much. There’s still something that bothers him. Something Rukia said, These murders are all incredibly flashy, like he’s screaming: Look at me! Look at me!

This entire investigation has been nothing but a game of cloak and daggers. Ishida was a diversion but what necessitated Inoue’s kidnapping if their plan’s to blow up the Keishicho? 

He shoulders open the door to the 5th floor and storms to interrogation. His blood freezes. The door’s open.

Ishida isn’t there. 

On table lies Ichigo’s handcuffs and the keys for them. Ichigo swallows and lets his heart scream while he breathes and hates himself. Ishida stole the fucking keys to his handcuffs after they’d had sex. He’s not sure why he’s caught thinking otherwise anymore.

He picks them up and leaves interrogation.

 

The Keishicho is eerie when abandoned. 

His breath is coming short and staggered and he’s drawn his gun. He can hear people making their way up the stairs, it’s echoing through the building. He takes out the light, hoping the emergency lights will play to his advantage. Ichigo knows he can’t rely on brute strength to get him through this. He has no idea how many people are here, but he has a feeling he’s outnumbered. 

He climbs up to Mizuiro’s office and hurries inside as soundlessly as possible. With deft hands, he goes through the drawers, looking for an earpiece. He finds one and connects his phone, calling Rukia and putting it in his ear. He check his gun while it’s ringing. He has eight shots and a reload, so 16 total. 

Rukia picks up, “Ichigo?”

“Ishida got out on his own. Did you get a hold of Urahara?”

“We did,” she replies, shushing someone behind her.

“Anything useful?”

“He said he would confirm whatever Ishida told you, when you found him.”

Ichigo huffs, “Insurance. He wants a guarantee.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“He stole the keys to my handcuffs,” he only says, ducking when he sees someone approaching past the glass-cage that is Mizuiro’s office. He dives under the table, sees a pair of blue Nike Air walk by. His heart’s picking up speed. He doesn’t breathe until the shoes are out of his field of vision. “Ask Keigo if there’s any way he can get me eyes inside?”

“I only have my phone and a crusty laptop, Ichigo!” Keigo interrupts and Ichigo suspects he’s on speaker.

“Keigo, you took down the NPA server with a library computer and Windows XP, don’t bullshit me on this,” he grits out and opens the door quietly. The man has walked down towards their bullpen, Ichigo moves in the other direction. He looks over his shoulder. He can almost physically feel someone watching him. He clenches his teeth.

He needs to know where Ishida is, needs to know how many people are in here with him, are they armed? With what? Does he stand a chance or should he get Ishida and hightail it out of here? Or could they take down whoever’s here back to back?

He swallows. Ichigo hadn’t even thought about Ishida’s fighting abilities. He’d come to consider him an asset in regards to his brain, but because he’d failed his qualifications … hang on! How could he fail he qualifications if he has over eight different firearms registered in his name. Ichigo’s beginning to suspect Ishida’s been playing a long con. He doesn’t understand why his heart clenches and he doesn’t understand why he’s even remotely surprised.

“Where’s Ishida now?” Mizuiro asks. Ichigo steps into an alcove to fix the earpiece. It keeps sliding out. He rubs his eyes for good measure.

Ichigo breathes out annoyed, “I’m looking for him.”

“Keigo’s online now. We’ve been through the South Wing, but there’s no trace of him. You sure he’s inside?” Rukia hijacks the phone and turns away from the others. Her voice becomes clearer and he knows she’s put him off speaker. “I know you he means a lot to you, but he’s probably legged it out of there already. Ishida’s smart enough to know that a fire-alarm means evacuate.”

“He stole the keys to the handcuffs, he knew something was going to happen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he cased the building first day and found every blind angle he could.”

He sounds bitter. Rukia doesn’t call him on it. Sometimes he doesn’t think he deserves her.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have.”

“Doesn’t mean you could’ve.”

He can hear her breath coming louder. It’s usually an indicator that she’s losing patience. She tries to calm herself as if she’d rather he just got his dumb ass out of the building as fast as possible. Granted, he’s fucking around in a structure resting atop who knows how many kilos of C4.

Then she says, “You think he’s in there?”

“I know he is.”

And he does. Ishida did half a year of police training and signed on for another half only to chase down whoever was pulling strings in the Yakuza from within the NPA. He’s not going to let three dozen car bombs get in his way of finishing what he started. He’s dedicated. He would’ve made a good cop. Ironically enough.

She sighs, a rush of air in his ear. “I’ll have Keigo look again.”

He looks around the corner and retreats back into the corner. He frowns, “Rukia, why would anybody blow up the Keishicho?”

“Ichigo,” she sounds exasperated. He gets it, she would probably like for him to get his backside in gear.

He doesn’t budge, “Why would they blow up the precinct?”

“Symbolic value?”

“When we have Ministry of Justice just across the street? Or the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications just down from us?”

“We share the parking cellar with the Ministry of Justice!”

A chill runs down his spine, “Get the bomb squad –“

“Chad’s already called them,” she interrupts, “Be careful in there. We don’t who –“

The sound’s blurry again and he stays where he is. 

Suddenly, there’s footsteps. He can hear someone approaching.

“Ichigo, –“ she says just as he steps around the corner and raises his gun, aiming it squarely at the chest of the approaching person. A man with a familiar smirk and electric blue hair smiles at him. Ichigo doesn’t think before he shoots. 

“Was that a gunshot?!” Keigo shouts.

The man doubles over but unbends laughing. The bullet’s been stopped dead in it’s track by a Kevlar vest. Ichigo aims again, this time for his shoulder. He fires again, but not before he remembers that Jaegerjaquez has a prosthetic arm. He’s wasted two bullets. Great. 14 left.

“Ichigo, what’s going on?”

He ignores the voices in the piece and instead blocks the kick the other aims for his stomach. He grabs the leg and throws Jaegerjaquez into the wall, rattling and breaking a few of the frames there. They fall to the ground, the glass shattering and spraying all over the carpet. Jaegerjaquez grins at him.

It’s not a second before he has to block again, then he takes a fist to his face and he can feel the blood running from his nose, dripping from his chin, trickling into his mouth. It’s warm and distracting. Ichigo ducks another fist and slams the butt of his gun into Jaegerjaquez’ temple. The other lets out a roar and Ichigo hurriedly steps back, bringing space between them. 

Jaegerjaquez turns towards him, the bawdy smile off his face. He draws two knives. They flash dangerously in the fluorescent light and Ichigo grabs a picture off the wall. They’re all crooked and drooping.

Ichigo gets ready for another onslaught. He attacks before he is attacked, hoping his best defense is a strong offense. 

“Are you okay?” someone, possibly Mizuiro asks. He doesn’t have much time to think about it as Jaegerjaquez stabs the knives towards him. Had he not drawn in his stomach and jumped back, he would’ve been gutted like a fish. 

Jaegerjaquez draws a wide half-circle with the knife, hitting Ichigo’s arm in the process. He grits his teeth, but holds his tongue. Ichigo steps back, leans back and tries drawing himself as far away as possible from the blades. Another swipe, this time square on Ichigo’s shoulder. In hindsight, blocking a knife like he’d block a punch is probably not the best idea. He smacks the other knife away with the picture, tearing the skin with the crushed glass and Ichigo sweeps the feet out under him. He lands heavily and Ichigo can hear the air go out of his lungs. 

“Ichigo?”

“One second,” he grits and kicks Jaegerjaquez in the ribs, keeping him stunned, and in his head, knocking him out cold. His breath is coming in heavy and he wipes a hand across his mouth, wiping at the blood. 

He hooks his hands under the unconscious man’s arms and starts dragging him towards Mizuiro’s office. 

“Mizuiro?” he asks.

“Ichigo, what happened?”

He opens the door and heaves the body inside, “Do you by any chance have handcuffs in your office?”

“Second drawer from the bottom, left side,” he replies. “What happened?”

“Jaegerjaquez is here. I don’t know who else.”

Someone takes the phone and then he hears Keigo say, “Dude, warn a guy!”

“Are you alright?” Chad asks as Ichigo digs out the handcuffs and secures Jaegerjaquez to the desk. He makes sure he can’t slip out of them or topple the table and escape like that. He tightens the cuffs as much as possible.

“I won’t die.” He wipes his nose again. “Rukia?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you found Ishida?”

There’s a silence and Ichigo thinks she’s finally got his point. “Ishida’s just taken down a pair of henchmen on 5th and he seems to be headed towards the bullpen.”

“Find out how many of the Espada are here and how many people they got with them.”

“On it.”

He takes a deep breath and pads down Jaegerjaquez, making sure there’s no concealed weapons on his person. He finds another two butterfly knives and a handgun. He removes them all and packs them himself.

“Chad?” he sounds ragged even to his own ears. He gets a hum in response.

He sighs and stands, “The bomb squad?”

“They’re arriving now,” he answers and then asks, “What’s you plan?”

“Find Ishida and find out what the fuck’s going on.”

 

He sneaks downstairs into the bullpen. There’s a few armed men there, but they don’t notice him passing through. He wonders where Ishida would’ve gone to. Jaegerjaquez’ appearance only made Ichigo even surer that something else entirely is going on. This case has been nothing but false starts and missing kingpins, smoke and mirrors. He wouldn’t be surprised if the car bombs are another distraction.

His footfalls are nigh-soundless on the carpet and the drifts around a corner, looking over his shoulder, checking to see if the men in there have spotted him yet. When he turns around, he’s staring directly into the barrel of a gun. A Glock 17 more specifically with a silencer attached to it.

It’s odd seeing Ishida holding a weapon. It looks as is he’s done nothing but handle weaponry his entire life and after reading his file, it seems he might not have. There’s a confidence in his eyes, something saturated and full behind the gun. It assures Ichigo that Ishida failed his qualifications on purpose. Ishida runs his eyes over him, sighs annoyed, and lowers his gun, but not before grabbing his sleeve and dragging him backwards, away from the bullpen. 

He looks around and again, he’s right. There’s no cameras where they’re crouching.

“What’re you doing here?” he hisses and narrows his eyes. Ichigo would say he almost looks happy to see him. If happy meant aggressiveness and barred teeth. Ishida’s eyes quickly flicks over him and then they take the same sheen as they had when he’d asked about the container, if there was anything inside. It makes Ichigo’s blood boil and he accepts the challenge.

Ichigo tips his head, “Same as you I assume.”

“Ichigo, did you find him?” asks Mizuiro while Ishida says, “You’re fucking kidding me, you don’t even –“ he stops himself and clamps down his comment. 

“Ishida, so help me God, if you know anything –“

He smirks, “Then what? You’ll arrest me? That worked well for you the last time.”

Ichigo considers it seriously, cuffing Ishida again, “Don’t tempt me.”

Ishida rolls his eyes and peers around the corner. It exposes the left side of his face and reveals a nasty bruise blooming down his cheekbones and jaw. It looks like a drooping laureate, spotted blues and purples. Ichigo’s heart contracts, it hurts and then he grits his teeth like a fucking professional and breathes.

“Listen, we can run ourselves ragged on our own or you could put your pride –“

His head whips back, “My pride?!”

“Your pride aside and then work together as the pair of adults we’re supposed to be!”

Keigo’s voice suddenly filters in from his headpiece, “Is this a bad time?”

Ishida’s sulking, arms crossed and furiously scowling. Ichigo would laugh at him if he wasn’t 99% sure he himself looked like that most of the time. 

“What is it?” he asks Keigo instead and watches Ishida still. He’s eavesdropping. Bastard.

“They have Inoue.”

Ishida stares at him, it’s almost blindingly blue if only for the intensity of it, “Ask him where.”

“Ishida wants to –“

“I heard Prettyboy alright,” Keigo dismisses and Ishida frowns at the name and lifts an eyebrow at Ichigo as if he would know who’d circulated this disgrace of a name or worse yet, was the source itself. 

Keigo cracks his knuckles and says, “And he gets to ask nicely. Considering the horseshit he’s been pulling.”

Ishida shakes his head and sighs, as if he can’t believe that his life has come to this. To be fair, Ichigo can’t believe his life has come to this either. They’re still crouching, heads so close together that if either of them leant forward, they would be kissing. It almost hurts breathing the same air as him.

“Is this necessary?” Ishida sounds sharp in a way Ichigo’s never heard before. He wonders if this is Ishida as a Quincy, when he’s being a professional. He doesn’t ask.

Ichigo removes the earpiece and holds it between them. Mostly because he doesn’t want Keigo shouting at Ishida directly into his eardrum. 

“Keigo,” he says and it sounds a tad admonishing. 

“Are you taking his side?”

“I’m saying we’re wasting time.”

Someone takes the phone and Rukia’s voice is coming through instead, “Tit for tat, Ishida. You answer our questions, we answer yours.”

He seems to consider the offer, but then leans back and takes another look over his shoulder. He looks like an avenging angel as the harsh fluorescent light haloes his head and Ichigo can’t help the feeling of absolute ire and yet helplessness that floods him, because no matter the outcome Ishida’s a Quincy and that makes him a person of interest for the Organized Crime units. And a dirty, rotten liar.

“What?” Ichigo asks and anchors the headpiece in his ear again. 

He holds out a hand and all but says stay down and out of my way. There’s a minute. Ichigo wants to tell him that between them he’s probably taken down more thugs and criminals, but he doesn’t get to.

Ichigo barely sees the blur of him taking down three armed guards without loosening a single shot. He dislocates a shoulder of one with a precise twist, subdues a second with the butt of his gun and disarms the third and guides him slowly onto the ground. Without thinking, Ichigo cuffs the disarmed guard and forces him into the alcove.

“Tie them up,” he says, all business. Ishida nods, slightly breathless, but Ichigo supposes even Ishida is human. The other two are deposited in front of him as well and he makes quick work of securing them all.

Ishida reaches over plucks the earpiece from him and secures it in his own ear.

“We each ask and answer a question in turn.”

There’s a tinny noise of the other end of the connection. “Hold on,” Ishida says and carelessly rips two wires from two of the guards, handing one to Ichigo and redirecting Rukia and Keigo to the new frequency. Ichigo hangs up his phone when he’s secured the wire and Ishida tosses the Bluetooth.

“They’re on 102.637,” Ishida informs them as he fastens the wire and moves his head around to adjust it. 

“I’ll put a tap,” Keigo says.

“Ichigo, can you hear us?” Rukia tries and he confirms.

“How many of them are there in the bullpen?” Ishida asks and then adds, “This is my first question.”

Ichigo can’t help the smirk, Ishida’s playing a bad hand here, and he’s playing it to his full advantage it seems. He hasn’t given up shit, he was probably going to tell them everything after he’d flown to Hawaii on his trust fund. Ichigo watches him with what he assumes must be a rather terrible face, because when Ishida looks at him again, he darkens immediately, “What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head.

“There’s five.” 

Ishida frowns, “If you give me this shitty information, I might just return the favor.”

“There’s two in the corner and three walking the floor. One of them’s at your desk, Ichigo, the two others are milling about. That better?”

Ishida has moved to pat down the guards and relieves them of their sub-machine guns and their ammunition. He slings one over his shoulder and tosses the other to Ichigo. “The two I took down on 5th were carrying mace and pistols. Do you want any of that?”

“I’m good.” He mirrors Ishida and pulls the strap over his shoulders. 

Ishida only shrugs as if the offering would broker peace and he doesn’t understand why Ichigo would slap away an outstretched hand.

“Our question,” Rukia says, “Who’s the insider?”

Ishida licks his lips and clicks off the safety, “Aizen Sosuke.”

“I’ll call Urahara,” Keigo says.

“That’s impossible,” Rukia shoots down the same time.

“It’s how it is, none the less.”

They both get up and then Ishida asks, “How do you want to do this?”

“As quick as possible,” Ichigo mumbles.

“You mean as sloppy as possible.”

“What’s your plan then?”

Ishida licks his lips and again, Ichigo just gets angry with him. “You take out the corners and I take the floor.”

“You’ll be shot before you even get there.” Ichigo sounds petulant. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Inoue needs him, there’s nothing that matters right now besides that. If she was hurt he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Please,” he huffs, “I have the best aim in Asia.”

And with that he saunters down the hall and Ichigo tries not to watch his leg as they carry him towards the bullpen and bloodshed. He tries to focus on Keigo telling him which corners he’s taking and tries slowing his own heartbeat. As he fails at this, he stares at Ishida and realizes, he has no idea who the person in front of him is and for all their nights together, he doesn’t know him at all. 

It’s a cold feeling, suddenly. Cold and lonely.

 

Ishida takes down the first guard before Ichigo even reaches his corner. He just sinks down and this escapes the notice of the remaining four in the room, because Ishida had plucked the one by Ichigo’s desk, who’d been shielded by the white board. He runs crouched and out of view.

Ichigo knocks out the one in the corner as Ishida kicks a chair towards the two remaining on the floor. He uses the distraction to take out the both of them with another two well-placed shots. He’s not wasting bullets per se, but he’s doesn’t seem worried about running out either. 

Before Ichigo gets moving to the last guard, Ishida’s flicked open a butterfly knife and has thrown it across the room. The man emits a ghostly groan and falls forward. 

Ishida meets his eye across the room, daring him to say something.

Ichigo does, because he believes he’s entitled to some answers, everything considered, “Who are you even?”

Curiously, Ishida looks taken aback with this and something flits across his eyes, something looking a lot like hurt. Well, it’s good to know he isn’t the only one feeling the knife deep in the back. Ishida turns away and walks to his desk, pulling out the chair and hauls his messenger bag onto the table, going through it.

“My next question,” he says and his voice is off then, “Any Espada?”

Ichigo secures the people they’ve taken down and ties them to the leg of his desk, hiding them underneath it. Ishida’s shots have been non-lethal. They’ve stunned and incapacitated, but none of them have killed. Even the bloke with the butterfly knife currently embedded in his thigh.

“Besides Jaegerjaquez, none so far.”

“Jaegerjaquez?” Ishida repeats and then looks to Ichigo.

“Ichigo took him down,” Rukia supplies as Ichigo shrugs.

“I figured.”

Ishida doesn’t comment further. Instead he opens his drawers and hauls out gauze and disinfectant. He holds them out to Ichigo, another offering, it seems, lifts his brow asking, “Do you want?”

The from me goes without saying.

And Ichigo isn’t stupid. He knows he can’t dress the gashes himself. He squares Ishida a look and then kneels, forcing Ishida to the floor as well. It’s a pretty revenge, he knows, but he can’t help feeling he’s five steps behind and never catching up.

“Why do you have a minor emergency room in your drawers?”

“I’ve been expecting this for a while.” Ishida removes Ichigo’s shirt almost solemnly and hesitantly wipes at the wound. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it’s soaked his shirt plenty. Ishida’s completely unfazed by the blood but seems insecure about touching Ichigo as if he can’t now that his cover’s been blown. It stings, but only half of it’s the disinfectant.

The air’s stuffy. It smells like blood. Ishida’s fingers are cold and he can’t lie and say it doesn’t feel amazing on his tender skin. Ishida works efficiently, quickly forgetting his initial worry.

Rukia says then, “What have you been expecting?”

“Is this a casual question or the second one I’m obliged to answer?” Ishida calmly answers while he starts wrapping Ichigo’s arm. Rukia doesn’t say anything.

“Aizen knew we were closing in on him. I’ve been bringing supplies with me since I started. It was just a matter of time.”

Ichigo sighs, “The car bombs?”

Ishida carefully looks up, fastens the gauze and sets to work on his other arm. 

“You shouldn’t wear the tie,” he says and gives it a slight tug. Ichigo rolls his eyes and removes it in case any guards get any ideas of hanging him it.

“What about them?” Ishida asks as if he genuinely doesn’t know why Ichigo would bring it up. For a moment, he wonders if Ishida hasn’t figured everything out and he actually has the advantage, but he realizes it’s the tone of voice that springs of impatience, not ignorance.

“You knew.” It’s not a question at this point.

“I figured it out when Granz admitted to mixing in other chemicals.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?” Ichigo all but spits at him and Ishida recoils a bit, but no more than a snake would if you charged it.

Ishida ties off the gauze, poised and flinty, and moves away, “I couldn’t tell you without looking guilty. I was planning on telling you before we found Kurosawa-san, but after that you started having suspicions. I couldn’t tell you without confirming them.”

“Guys?” Mizuiro says, using the same tone of voice he uses when two conflicting parties are out of line.

“How did you know?” Ichigo demands and takes off his shirt completely. He doesn’t want to traipse around the building with a bloody shirt, not when he has a clean undershirt on. Besides, shutting off the power took out the A/C, so it’s hot and pressing.

“Word on the street –“

“So Urahara knew.”

“He assumed,” Ishida sits back and licks his lips. To the others he says, “Where’s Inoue?”

“Why do you even care?” Ichigo stands, shaking his head. “She’s not your friend.”

Ishida all but shoots up, “I care about her the same way I care about all the people currently in danger.”

“That’s funny coming from you.”

“What do you mean?” Ishida sounds edgy. 

Ichigo shrugs, “You kill people as a hobby.”

“It’s my civic duty to do right by my pride as a Quincy –“

“And does that pride dictate how far you go in order to fulfill your quota?”

“What?”

Ichigo rips out his earpiece and snatches Ishida’s away as well, “Do you usually fuck your marks or was I just special?”

Ishida’s mouth falls open and he’s at a loss for words. Ichigo’s blood freezes in his veins as he sees Ishida shake his head, “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why? Because I caught on?”

“Because you’re not just a fucking number, Kurosaki!”

Ichigo turns around and runs a hand through his hair, “So you just did this for fun?”

“Is that what you think?” 

At that, Ichigo turns around and looks Ishida in the eyes. 

“Doesn’t really matter what I think, does it?” he answers with as much of a deprecating smirk as he can muster, “But you know, congratulations. You fucking did it. Not only did you get Aizen, you got the rest of us as well.”

“Kurosaki, I didn’t –“

Ichigo reinserts the earpiece and asks them, “Have you found her?”

“Cifer’s heading for the roof with her,” Keigo answers, quietly. 

Ishida puts his back in as well, collecting the gauze and another set of handguns.

If Ichigo wanted to tear apart what’s left of his heart, he’d say Ishida’s hands are shaking.

 

“They’re after the files,” Ishida says as Ichigo’s about to open the door to the stairs. The elevator’s a death trap with or without the heightened threat of Espada roaming the premises and it seems like a folly to use it because it would let them avoid taking the stairs. That, and Ichigo’s not sure he could handle being in such close quarters with Ishida. 

Ichigo frowns, “What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t do that. I know you’ve figured the cars are another diversion.”

Ichigo turns around, leaning against the wall, “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’ve watched you. I know you like to pretend you’re the dumbest person in the room but can you please drop the act. For Inoue if not for my sake. Frankly, it’s insulting.”

“Oh, you mean the same way you’ve been manipulating and lying to us since we met you?”

Ishida’s mouth tightens and clenches his jaw. He looks away and he looks so young and vulnerable and if Ichigo wasn’t as disgusted with himself for wanting it and had it been for any other reason than this, he might’ve reached out and put his arms around him to calm him down. God, he wishes he could just snap out of love as quick as he’d fallen into it. But something about Ishida won’t allow it, it seems. 

“The car bombs are a ruse. They’re after the files?”

“My files?!” Keigo all but shouts in their ears. To his credit, Ishida doesn’t even flinch. Instead he sighs, as if he’s a soldier going back to the frontline, taken away from everything he holds dear, yet knowing that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“What Asano – what you did six years ago was the most far-reaching black hat attack in the history of the NPA and in the process of proving a point you managed to delete the files and IDs of thousands upon thousands of people docked in that system.” Something in Ishida’s eyes change, “You undid a lot of my work. You follow me?”

Keigo hums and Ichigo clenches his jaw. He’d heard Rukia tell about busts and searches almost too easy to be true. They’d get anonymous tips, arrive and find everyone there incapacitated one way or another. It was a unanimous, unspoken agreement that no one asked question lest the Yakuza began upping their game. This way they rid the streets, filled the prisons and no one got hurt. Or Ishida might’ve, hightailing it out of whatever den before the police came calling. 

“The car bombs?” Ichigo asks.

“A bargaining chip,” Ishida brushes him off. Ichigo had forgotten how unworthy Ishida could make him feel with a simple glance or tone of voice. When he turns back to him, there’s something in his eyes though, a pastel blue and pink of a setting sun. He wipes at a smudge of Ichigo’s blood by his lip and looks almost lost in the redness that comes away for a second, but he looks away and the sun has sunk and left the sky ripe for the night. 

“Without these files they wipe the slate clean and start fresh. Every piece of evidence that’s been gathered over the years, every lead, every witness statement will be lost and irretrievably so. A lot of people would walk,” Ishida says. His shoulders have straightened again and the air of posh superiority has returned.

Keigo audibly swallows, “He’s not wrong.”

“At least 60% of our cases are solved using cross-referencing and priors, without them we’d … we’d solve less than four cases a day,” Rukia adds and he knows she’s crossing her arms, thinking hard about the possibility of this becoming a reality. “Tokyo would become their playground.”

Ichigo exchanges a look with Ishida and knows they’re seeing eye to eye on this. He nods once and gets a hint of one in return. “I’ll find Inoue.”

“Asano?”

“Pree-sent.”

“Where would I need to go to stop them?” Ishida asks.

“You need to head to the batcave ASAP. When you’ve arrived, we’ll take it from there.”

Ishida turns to head down towards Keigo’s HQ, but not before turning his head and giving Ichigo a look that spoke volumes in a language he doesn’t yet understand.

He stops then, muffles his earpiece and says, “You know, it’s strange.”

Ichigo looks up, “What is?”

“Kurosaki’s a Quincy name.”

 

Ichigo hurries up the stairs. He wills his breath to come quietly and his feet to fall light. He reloads his gun and listens to Keigo guide Ishida through his mainframe, connecting him to the servers and patching several glitches and errors. There were sounds of a scuffle and he wills himself to stay calm and remember that whatever he feels for Ishida was built on half-truths and illusions.

From what Ichigo can tell, Ishida’s heading to the server room, hoping to intercept whoever might be going there while Keigo keeps on the virtual side of things.

“Ichigo?” Keigo says and he hums in response.

“Five goons are waiting for you at the top of the stairs.”

“They know we’re here?”

“Ishida was practically ambushed when he entered the batcave.”

Ichigo swallows and takes a deep breath, asking, “Is he alright?”

“I’m fine,” Ishida answers and Ichigo had forgotten they were on the same frequency. He feels his cheeks heat slightly, but no one here can see him so it doesn’t matter whether or not his face colors.

“Anyways,” Keigo interrupts, sounding almost smug, “Five on the stairs for you, Ichigo. Three or so for you Ishida-san.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or no,” Ishida responds, voice calm and quiet. 

The line goes quiet after that. 

He reaches the top-floor and hears Keigo whisper, “5000 on Ichigo.”

“Are you guys betting?” he asks incredulous. 

There’s a pause, “No?”

Ichigo realizes he needs new friends. After this disaster he’s going to move to Finland, change his name and become a gardener and part-time philosopher. He’ll water his sunflowers and live like a hermit until his pride has recovered and then he’ll go out and fuck thousands upon thousands of beautiful people, preferably Scandinavians, tan, blond and because he’s a masochist, blue eyes. 

He kicks the door open, slamming it into the first guard there, takes out the other two without problems and locks up all three of them in Captain Kuchiki’s office. The two others charge at him, but he sweeps one of their feet and lets the other taste the butt of his service-weapon. He puts them with the others. Kuchiki most likely won’t appreciate the gesture, but honestly, right now it’s not a priority. 

“Keigo, how many of them are there?” he asks, ducking under the windows as another group of them run past. 

“From what I can tell, subtracting the ones you’ve already taken out …” he hums and clicks his tongue, “Fifty, give or take. Cifer’s currently the only Espada I have eyes on.”

“How’s Inoue?”

“She’s a trooper. She’s not giving them anything.”

“Where’re they?” Ichigo asks and sneaks out of the office. It’s odd how quickly he became used to being a guerilla in his own precinct. 

He melts into the shadows as the same group pass him again. He hasn’t been on the Captains’ Hall much, but he remembers where most offices are and where you can’t be seen from the hallway. He and Rukia had snuck into the keishicho to steal the files regarding her case. They’d clung to the corners and the blind angles of the camera much as he himself does now. He wishes Rukia was here with him now, she’d steady him and give him pointed looks whenever they heard Ishida’s voice over the wire, forcing him to think about the problem at hand. 

He shakes his head. She isn’t here and he shouldn’t need her to baby him.

“They’re in the conference room, C34, it should come up on your right hand now.”

A beat.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Llargo is there?”

Ichigo stops dead in his tracks, “How the fuck did you miss Llargo?”

“Calm your tits, I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Keigo, this –“

“Ichigo,” Rukia says and he breathes. “You’ve fought and bested most of the Riot Squad, you’ve broken into the NPA, you’ve risen the ranks faster than anyone before Captain Hitsugaya. You made lieutenant because you’re smart, strong, and most importantly, you never give up. Inoue’s counting on you and you’re not going to let her down. Forget Aizen, forget Ishida, forget the Captain-Commander, you can’t let her down. Do you understand?”

Ichigo huffs, “Copy that.”

“Good, now go kick their asses!”

Ichigo walks out of the black that’s hidden him so far and moves towards C34.

Like everything on this floor, it’s a glass cage. Inoue’s sitting on a chair, hands folded in her lap and back straight. She isn’t cuffed and she’s fidgeting with the ring that no longer’s on her finger. He swallows. Next to her is Cifer. He looks like the Black Parade came to life and took hold of the most miserable existence in the world. He’s pale as death and dresses like he’s going to a funeral. 

Llargo’s standing by the door, effectively blocking it. He’s still bruised and battered, but he’s a Goliath in his own right. 

Cifer looks up, eyes immediately on Ichigo. Ichigo doesn’t bother ducking out or away. He presumably asks Llargo to move away from the door because when Ichigo approaches he steps away from it. He swallows, Llargo was number 10 and it stands to reason it might be ranking lowest, which mean Cifer’s the one calling the shots.

“I thought you said you cleared the building, Yammy,” Cifer says, monotonous and dry. Inoue looks up and meets Ichigo’s eyes. He tries to give her a reassuring smile, tries to tell her that Shun’s worried, but he has no reason to be, he’ll get her out of here.

“It’s one person, I’ll squash him now.”

Cifer gives him a short, but withering look. Ichigo suddenly realizes that Cifer by no means has been hanging out with Llargo, but Llargo has been tailing after Cifer. Llargo doesn’t have enough brainpower to navigate Tokyo’s underbelly, Cifer seems to have for the both of them. 

“As was the Quincy.” He turns towards Inoue and watches her, “Aizen-sama trusted you to do the job.”

“Ulqiorra,” Llargo growls, “You’re not the boss of me!”

“But I outrank you,” Cifer cuts him off, “And Aizen-sama trusts me to hold the tower until we’re finished.”

Llargo crosses his arms and Ichigo doesn’t want to turn his back to him. If he’s caught in those paws, his neck will be snapped before he even gets to thinking about planting his sunflowers and shagging sexy Scandinavians. Or see Ishida again. He hates himself for wanting that so badly.

“Kurosaki Ichigo,” Cifer turns to him then, “Did you enjoy the game?”

He shrugs, “It was alright.”

“Aizen-sama put a lot of work into it, you should be more appreciative.”

“You certainly aren’t afraid of name-dropping,” Ichigo stays by the door. Inoue presses her lips together.

Cifer frowns, “Only because you won’t leave this room alive.”

He says it with such a neutrality, Ichigo feels a shiver run down his spine. To Cifer, this was a statement, not a prediction or a threat, but a cold-hard fact. The air’s so still in here, they might as well be in a tomb, and Ichigo assumes that’s one of the reasons Cifer likes it. He seems to type find dying things amusing as much as someone who hates the world might. 

Cifer doesn’t know he’s wearing an earpiece and with Llargo to his left, he can’t see the wire. If he keeps his distance, Cifer might not notice either.

“Is he planning on detonating all the bombs with you two in here still?”

“What bombs?!” Llargo shouts and all but stomps towards Cifer who holds out a single hand and stops him dead in his tracks. Ichigo wonders how scared of Cifer Llargo must be since he stands down like a dog.

“If necessary,” Cifer says. Llargo’s obviously waiting for more, but the other isn’t giving it to him. With Llargo by Cifer, he inches towards Inoue.

“Where is he now? Shouldn’t he be here with you, making sure his plan goes to fruition?”

He’s talking to keep them occupied. It’s not his usual tactics, but he’s willing to adapt to the situation.

“He has more important things to tend to.” And with dead eyes he stops Ichigo where he is, “There’s more to this than just erasing the database.”

“What is that?” Ichigo frowns and keeps his gaze level.

“Ulqiorra!”

Cifer sighs, “Yammy.”

“Have you left us to rot here?!” Llargo bellows. Cifer, to his credit, doesn’t seem fazed with this. Instead he grabs Inoue’s arm and forces her to stand, pushing her towards Llargo.

“Watch her.”

“Ulqiorra!” Yammy repeats, but grabs Inoue around the neck, keeping her pinned.

Cifer ignores him, fully focused on Ichigo, “Kurosaki Ichigo, do you believe in God?”

 

Ichigo’s palms are sweating. His heartrate has gone berserk and he’s currently staring down two almost unbelievably turquoise eyes, but they seem sick and polluted. His mind goes to Ishida’s eyes, how clear they seem in comparison with Cifer’s.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Should I?”

Cifer shrugs and runs a hand across table, “Aizen-sama raised us all from the fresh hell that was our existence before him. He gave us purpose. People have died for their gods throughout history, doesn’t that make Aizen-sama a god, if enough of us are willing to die for him?”

“Ishida’s on his way towards you now,” Rukia whispers, as if she’s afraid Cifer will hear her if she speaks normally. And Ichigo doesn’t blame her, his stare impales him and has him nailed to the spot.

Ichigo swallows. Cifer’s a fanatic. It’s evident from the way he holds himself, the way he talks, the way his eyes look positively sick. “What did you mean he had other things to tend to?”

Cifer shrugs, “It doesn’t concern you.”

“So he’s sitting at home, feet up and watching television while you’re stuck here in a building rigged to blow up?”

Llargo bares his teeth and tightens his grip on Inoue. He has her throat in the crook of his elbow and she’s straining against it, hands clasped on the forearm. She’s struggling to breathe.

“What’re you waiting for, Ulqiorra, kill that little shit.”

Cifer sighs and takes a step to the side and gestures for Llargo, “He’s all yours.”

Inoue’s pushed to Cifer who simply grabs her the same way Llargo had held her before. Ichigo swallows and takes a step back towards the door. Llargo pushes chairs out of the way, throwing it to the ground and smiling wide as he does. “I finally get to kill a cop!”

Then, suddenly, the glass behind Ichigo shatters and Llargo freezes. His head whips back and he falls heavily to the ground, blood hanging in the air. The thump reverberates through Ichigo and he looks up to see Cifer look dumbstruck and locked. Inoue’s not even looking at them, she’s breathing heavily. He follows Inoue’s eyes.

Ishida’s stock-still, heaving for air, gun still poised and aimed at Cifer. And Ichigo’s heart leaps, because Ishida’s dirty and ruffled, but no more than a blackbird might have ruffled feathers. He’s not bleeding from what Ichigo can see.

Inoue shouts and Ichigo whips around to see Cifer push her onto the table and then move towards the last staircase, the one leading to the roof.

“Take care of Inoue, I’ll follow here!”

“Kurosaki!” Ishida shouts after him, but Ichigo’s already shouldering open the door and running after Cifer towards the roof. 

The cold, October wind greets him with hungry kisses, but he doesn’t get to enjoy them after being in the stifled air downstairs for so long, because before he can even raise his gun, Cifer knocks him out and everything goes black.

 

Inoue’s calling his name. 

She’s crying.

He opens his eyes, squinting because the sky’s so white and he’s freezing cold. Inoue’s hair is twisting and flipping wildly, like embers and sunsets in the sparse sunlight. Tears are running from her eyes and his head is hurting. He sits up and then looks around. Cifer’s standing above Ishida with Ishida’s own Glock 17 in his hands. The silencer has come off and so the entirety of Tokyo will hear Ishida’s execution.

Fire burns through his veins then and he pushes himself off the ground, tackling Cifer. The gun goes off so close to Ichigo’s ear that all he can hear is a high-pitched screaming. He knocks the Glock out of Cifer’s hands, kicks it away and grabs after his own, when Cifer kicks him off and rolls away. 

He might be slim and wiry, but it’s all muscles underneath the tweaking exterior. Ichigo’s breathing hard and he places himself between Cifer and Inoue and Ishida. He looks around and finds both sub-machineguns empty and on the ground, bursts of gunfire dotted into the concrete and a smell of smoke in the air.

Ichigo catches Inoue running to Ishida while Cifer lunges for him again. Ichigo swipes him away and trips him, placing a kick in his ribs. Cifer rolls away from it and Ichigo barely grazes him. 

Cifer's on the ground and a cold fury replaces the fires that had erupted. Ichigo draws his gun and aims. The wind’s ushering him to finish the piece of trash at his feet, but something in Ichigo feels sorry for him as well. 

Suddenly, with the speed of a viper, Cifer twists and kicks Ichigo’s knee. He can feel it give in the wrong direction, can feel the sickening stretch and break of his ligaments. He falls to the ground, hissing at the dense and dull pain that overtakes his leg.

Cifer gets to his feet and with a manic glint in his eyes, he stomps on Ichigo’s side, and Ichigo can feel his ribs give and the air be forced from his lungs. Spit comes out as well, running down his chin. He wipes it away.

He sees Inoue and Ishida stare at him, looking miserable and disbelieving. He swallows hard and swallows back all the feeling he doesn’t need. He’s still clutching his gun and he aims it at Cifer’s shin. 

And he shoots.

The relief that floods through him as Cifer screams and falls to the ground, his shin splintered and broken, blood flowing freely from there, has him getting to his feet. His knee’s sore and it hurts to breathe, but that doesn’t matter, because he got the son of a bitch at his feet and he aims the gun again.

And shoots.

Cifer screams again as Ichigo fires a bullet into his shoulder and then another into his knee. He pulls the trigger again and this time he doesn’t care where the bullets hit, he just wants Cifer to suffer for taking Inoue, for hurting her. He wants him to feel the same terror he himself felt when he woke and found Cifer above Ishida and he wants Cifer to know that he’s not forgotten Fujioka Hiroko or any of the other he’s had a part in torturing or using.

“Kurosaki!” Ishida says and puts his hand on his arm. “That’s enough.”

Ichigo couldn’t tell you what had him turn and fire the last round off in Ishida’s gut. 

Ishida’s eyes widen in shock and Ichigo feels every drop of righteous fire drain from his veins.

He drops the gun as if it’s burning, which in a way it is, the same way the sun burns a blind man. It clatters on the ground, empty and smoking. 

Ishida’s still standing, looking Ichigo straight in the eyes and then he tentatively touches the wound from which blood wells up and flows over his fingers, dying everything it touches the most cutting shade of red Ichigo’s ever seen. He staggers backwards and Ichigo goes to catch him, holds him, whispering nonsense in his hair.

“Shit, Ishida, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he rattles, sinking to the ground with the other in his arms. 

“Don’t be daft,” he mutters as Ichigo maneuvers him down onto the ground.

Inoue sits down next to him and instruct Ichigo to press the wound to stop the bleeding, but the blood keeps pouring out between the cracks of his fingers. 

He sees Ishida’s hand is bloody and bent in a way he never thought a human hand could be. Inoue’s tried to bandage it as good as possible, but they don’t have anything to bind the wound, and bile rises in Ichigo’s throat at the smell, iron heavy in the air and on his hands. 

In his ears, he hears Keigo tell him that a medic is on the way.

Ishida doesn’t pass out. He evens his breathing and stares at the sky, facing the whiteness without a scrap of fear. His looks to Ichigo, “I probably won’t make the meeting on Monday.”

Ichigo chuckles despite himself though it sounds hollow and horrid, “We’ll reschedule.”

“God forbid,” Ishida mumbles, slurring.

 

They catch Aizen while he’s trying to leave the country. Ichigo has the pleasure of making the arrest in front of the entire Tokyo International Airport. Mizuiro has the pleasure of announcing to every news agency in the country that they were fucking wrong and they know their shit. Maybe not in those exact words, but it’s essentially what he tells him. 

The minute they opened the can, worms began crawling up from every possible crevice. Urahara helps them navigate the up to a thousand (and counting) cases Aizen’s been involved with. Everything from kidnapping to trafficking, to murder and blackmail. They learn that Aizen’s had several captains dishonorably discharged and later murdered over the years, many of them friends of Urahara’s. 

There’s a heaviness in the air when he hands over their cases. He’d held onto their files, had them smuggled out of the NPA in case Aizen would try and rewrite history by erasing that anything happened in the first place. The further they travel down the Rabbit Hole, the more reasonable Urahara becomes, less paranoid and quickly making it abundantly clear he was sacked without reason.

Another two captains are implicated. Captain Ichimaru has decided to testify against Aizen, but Captain Tousen won’t give up anything. Ichigo can see the same light in his eyes as was in Cifer’s.

The case begins unravelling faster than they can keep up and suddenly Organized Crime, White Collar and Narcotics are all involved as well, and it still doesn’t feel like they’re enough to handle it. They constantly look to the vacant chair all thinking they need an insider’s eye, but never saying anything out loud.

One night, Rukia sucks a breath in and Ichigo can tell she’s fighting tooth and nail as not to start crying. He leans over and sees that Aizen’s being charged with slander and other such accounts of one Kuchiki Rukia. She sleeps at his apartment that night and they drink, pretending that the world isn’t shifting underneath them as they’re sitting there.

Within the next week, Ichigo moves on. Not from Ishida, no that thorn is going to sit for a while, but what he did and had done. He’s sitting outside the hospital room and counting the ceiling tiles, when he realizes this. Ichigo’s always been quick to forgive and forget, he doesn’t believe in holding grudges. But even so, he didn’t expect it to be less than two weeks. Maybe he’s tired. He’s so tired from chasing a shadow, from being beaten and bruised, from being heartbroken, from being miserable, that he just … can’t be bothered. It’s a weight that shifts off his shoulders when he breathes out.

He finds out that Ishida killed the five Yakuza responsible for murdering his grandfather the day he turned 18. He finds out that he flirted with heroin in his last year of college and he discovers that he has low blood pressure. This isn’t in any of the files. Ishida tells him the first, he’s so drugged from his surgery he even alludes to Ichigo having the best dick in the world (that might’ve made Ichigo laugh at which Ishida had smiled a brilliant smile), and the third is listed in his patient file that Ichigo may or may not have read out of boredom.

They talk to Ishida Ryuuken. That’s how he discovers fact number two.

He never gets to ask Ishida, because when he comes off the morphine, he refuses visitors. 

Ichigo busies himself with scheduling a knee-surgery the coming spring. Cifer had torn his ACL and the commissioner, while commending him for a job well-done, had suggested he had the knee looked at. His ribs were bruised, the gashes on his arm and shoulder have scabbed but besides that, he’s in perfect medical condition because everybody insists that having your heart torn out can’t be fixed in surgery. 

He’s scrolling through the information-package the hospital has sent him in regards to the knee-surgery and his upcoming MRI, leg resting on the chair that once belonged to Ishida, when Keigo drops by and dumps about 30 pages of paper onto his keyboard and subsequently his hands with the words, “You’re welcome.”

Ichigo looks from the papers to Keigo, “What’s this?”

“It took some digging, but it turns out that we’d drawn up a contract for Ishida Soken in connection with him joining the good fight.”

Ichigo’s heart begins beating a little faster, “And?”

“It’s based on the undercover notion, you know, all crimes committed during your time under is a lawful necessity. And I was thinking we might reuse it,” Keigo smacks his lips.

“What does the Captain-Commander say?”

“He doesn’t necessarily know yet.” Keigo looks down, clasping his hands behind his back, woefully unbothered by this. “I thought I’d leave that in your capable hands.”

Keigo bows and backs away. Mizuiro passes him and while Keigo gives him a shit-eating grin, Mizuiro simply rolls his eyes fondly. He comes up to Ichigo and sits down in Chad’s chair. “So?”

“So,” he repeats and removes the bundle from his keyboard and continues reading.

“We could use someone like him,” Mizuiro offers. “You could use someone like him.”

Ichigo scrubs his hands over his eyes and leans back, “It’s not about whether or not we can use him, of course we can use him, he’s mad brilliant.”

“But?” Mizuiro coaxes.

“I don’t know.” Ichigo sighs, “I guess, I don’t know if I can trust him.”

“He saved your life,” Mizuiro ventures and takes a sip of coffee.

“And I shot him, oh my God!” He facepalms because he’s yet to apologize to Ishida, but the other doesn’t want any visitors and Ichigo just wants to fucking see him and see if he’s alive. This is so messed up.

Mizuiro chuckles. He lets Ichigo stew for a bit before saying, “Think about it. What have you got to lose at this point?”

“My dignity?”

Insultingly enough, Mizuiro huffs, but then he says, “Read the papers and ask him what he thinks.”

Ichigo reads the papers when he comes home, the cat on his chest, purring deeply. She’d seemed worried when he’d returned home from the hospital, his knee in a splint and bruises blooming everywhere. She’d stayed with him the past week without leaving. It seems the one good thing to come of this is a full-time cat. It warms a lot more than it rightfully should, but Ichigo’s happy.

The deal’s solid. It grants legal immunity for all crimes committed in the service of the Japanese society, provides a steady income, witness protection (Ichigo can’t help but snort then), and a job at the NPA’s Organized Crime division as a consulting investigator. They’d need someone from Organized Crime to sign for him and take him in. 

He picks up the phone, trying not to disturb the cat. He dials Rukia’s number, finger hovering over the call button. The cat lifts his head and gives him a look. He dials.

“It’s eleven in the evening,” she greets him and he wonders if this is what it feels like talking to him this time of night.

“Keigo found the deal they offered Ishida’s grandfather back in the day.”

He can almost hear her frown, “And you want to offer it to Ishida?”

He does. Most importantly, he wants Ishida to take it. He wants him to walk the light side of life and leave the neon-lit nights behind. If not for Ichigo’s sake, then his own. Ishida might be fantastic at what he does, but he’s reckless and angry. And he can’t help thinking that if Ishida crossed over, they might be friends if anything. He’d like that. He’d like that a lot. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” she asks him because she asks the questions that need asking.

“I’m sure.”

“What do you want then?” 

Ichigo smiles a little to himself, “He needs a supervisor.”

He hears Rukia sigh. There’s a sound like a fridge opening and a can being clicked open, “You serious?”

“If you don’t want to, I can ask Renji.” He wants Rukia to do it. He trusts Rukia to do it. Also, Rukia would be adamant about keeping whatever Ishida said to her a secret, but if he bribed her, she would give in and tell her how he was doing at least. 

Because Ichigo’s tried calling him, tried texting him, tried visiting him, but every time, Ishida denies his requests, ignores his texts or hangs up before even answering the call. It hurts. But Ichigo knows that even if every single cell in his body wants Ishida to come back to him, he understands why it wouldn’t happen. He might’ve moved past it, but that doesn’t mean Ishida has.

“Fine, I’ll do it, but don’t expect me to be passing notes between you.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he grins and runs a hand down the back of the cat.

“Does the Captain-Commander know?”

“That’s my next mountain.”

She takes sip and slurps whatever it is, “Well, good luck with that.” Then she hangs up.

 

He learns that Ishida’s escaped the hospital the next day. 

“That’s uncharacteristic,” Chad says. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as a coward, he woops ass for a living,” Keigo agrees and tries catching an M&M with his mouth. He’s lopped it too far and it hits him in the eye. “Why?!” he shouts at the universe’s betrayal. Mizuiro shakes his head.

They’re sitting in their nigh-empty bullpen. Everybody’s still out cleaning up after the Aizen Affair as the press has so lovingly named it. Chad’s finished reviewing their cases and has send them to the district-attorney who will then submit them to the state and then the trial will begin from there. Both he, Keigo and Mizuiro have been buried deep in this, making sure nothing’s lacking on their end. 

Inoue’s sitting in Ishida’s chair and runs a hand across the table, lost in thought. She’d been off-duty for the past three weeks, spending time with Shun and talking with him about what she’d been through. Ichigo had offered listening as well and she’d smiled and said she would tell him later, when none of them still had bruises from the incident.

“Maybe his father knows where he is,” Mizuiro says and catches the M&M Keigo’s launched with his hand and eats it. Keigo gives him a stern look but flicks another one into the air.

Ichigo decides it’s worth a shot. Mizuiro rattles off the number, because of course, he knows the number for Ishida Ryuukens’ personal secretary, and Ichigo makes the call, putting it on speaker.

“You’ve reached the office of Ishida Ryuuken, how may I help you today?” a female voice answers them. She’s soft and calm, a perfect telephone-voice. 

“This is Kurosaki Ichigo with the Tokyo PD, I’d like to –“

“Hold please,” she says and hangs up. 

They all sit and stare at the phone. It’s Keigo who breaks the silence, “Wauw, it’s like there’s an entire company out there that only hires people with terrible communication skills.”

No doubt he’s referring the founder and the offspring of one such of the company as well. It’s a careful smile that breaks on people’s lips, all of them tip-toeing around Ichigo, waiting for his reaction.

“Ishida Ryuuken speaking.”

Ichigo almost drops his phone from sheer surprise. He’d expected to do a telephonetical sit-in, an Occupy Blue Cross; he’d expected he’d need a warrant, honestly. This is almost too easy.

“This is Kurosaki Ichigo, we met when –“

“When you arrested my son, I remember.” The voice is cool, but in a way that brokers comfortability. It’s the voice of many winters and troubles, of a sighing heart resigned with distance. 

Keigo gapes and makes slicing motions at his throat.

“I’m assuming you’re calling to tell me he’s escaped the hospital, maybe even to ask me if should happen to know where he is?” Ishida’s father is not one to dawdle. Despite the obvious rift between them, it’s easy to see how alike they are. Ichigo pictures him reading a file while their talking, he doesn’t seem like one to occupy himself with only one thing at a time.

“I am,” Ichigo answers, because he knows Ishida appreciates honesty and his father might to the same.

“He’s in France. Or he will be in an hour or two.”

Ichigo’s heart stops. “France?”

“He said something about needing some fresh air. And now that every thug in Tokyo knows his identity, I’m tempted to assume he’s safer in Paris than he is here. Should I tell him to call you on the off-chance he calls me first?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Ichigo says, sounding dead to his own ears.

There’s a silence from the other end and then, “Between you and me …”

He gives Ichigo enough time to switch off the speaker-phone and take it to his own private sphere. Keigo makes a kissy face in the background, it makes Ichigo’s eyes go hot and he turns around resting his head on his free hand, hunching in on himself. “Yes?”

“It has nothing to do with a change of air. It has everything to do with not being able to look you in the eye.”

Ichigo swallows. 

“Bon chance,” Ishida Ryuuken hangs up, sounding almost gleeful, as much as a glacier can sound gleeful, that is, and Ichigo carefully places his phone on the table.

“What did he say?” Keigo asks.

“Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying this long. There's one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts from Ishida's POV.  
> Again, thank you for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter/epilogue.   
> I feel like I have to make a few excuses here in regards to the choices I’ve made with Ishida’s character and problems that emerge here from his POV. I figure that had Ishida witnessed his grandfather die in a normal society where eminent death and destruction wasn’t a part of every day life, trauma would arise. And so, I decided Ishida should have a slew of problems and I’m sorry if this strikes as out of character.   
> On another note, my headcanon regarding Ishida is that he’s cool, calm and collected. Except in his head. Alright, without further ado …

The capital of France is Paris. France is home to 67.11 million people. The republic was founded on September 22nd, 1792. Their national motto is liberté, egalité, fraternité, their national anthem La Marseillaise. 

Ishida hates France. 

That’s a lie. He doesn’t hate France. He hates his life as he is in France and this reflects poorly on France. 

He’s drunk white wine until he couldn’t feel his fingertips, has had sex with God knows how many people and still, he feels like shit. He’s looking out the airplane window, watching the pearly white clouds blushing and swirling. 

The man next to him keeps hitting on him and all he wants to do is slam his head down in his tray. There’s an infant somewhere on the plane and Ishida’s beginning to suspect it’s sabotaging his flight on purpose. He’s read through his copy of Ulysses four times now and there’s only so much Joyce he can take at a time. And the food, don’t get him started. Then they wanted him to pay for his drinks. Seriously, fuck Air France.

He can afford it, sure, but considering the price of the ticket, it really should be included.

Despite all this, it’s like his soul is calming down with every mile and his heart is seizing up the closer he gets.

Because while Ishida might hate France, he went there for a reason. 

His neighbor has engaged the in-flight entertainment, seeing as Ishida’s proving unsusceptible to his dashing charms and handsome ways. He’s decided on the 2014 remake of Godzilla and if that doesn’t strike a little too close to home, Ishida isn’t sure what does. He looks away and out the window again. 

He should be sleeping now, but the day’s bright and lovely outside, crisp like only December can be. 

Ishida’s never liked procrastinating. He prefers dealing with his shit like an adult and face the music when needed. He’s never felt like he had, when he got on the plane to Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport. It had felt like running away with your tail between your legs and it wasn’t a feeling Ishida was used to. He once thought of himself as brave, but apparently there’s a big difference between being brave and killing people as a hobby.

God, he’d wanted to shoot himself right then and there. The look in Kurosaki’s eyes had been horrible. He’d felt that shitty once before and that had been after killing the five people responsible for his grandfather’s death. He’d thrown up in an alley a little ways away, the tears stinging in his eyes and to this day, he maintains the tears were caused by the puking. 

He hadn’t killed anybody since then, not until he’d placed a bullet between Llargo’s eyes.

In truth, that had also been one of the reasons he’d left for France. He’d killed someone for Kurosaki and it scared him. He doesn’t kill people. He may torture, extort and terrorize people, but he doesn’t kill them. Most of the time, he doesn’t have to. 

The hold Kurosaki had on his heart was vice-like and it had taken every ounce of will-power not to scream and shout when he’d suggested Ishida had slept with him for nefarious reasons. Ishida sleeps around, by all means, he’d spent most of his time in France on his back, staring up into ceiling. But he’d closed his eyes and pictured red hair and defined muscles, warm eyes and scarce smiles. 

Ishida separates business and pleasure. At least he had until Kurosaki had come along. God, he just made him throw every single principle he’d ever had to the wind and has him smiling softly instead. Ishida hates how weak he’s become. 

His neighbor leans towards him. Ishida can’t believe this is first class. Next time he’s flying coach, this is terrible. He excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. He stays there for half an hour playing Angry Birds. 

When he returns, his neighbor has turned his attention across the aisle and is flirting shamelessly with a woman there. She’s uptight if the shape of her mouth is anything to go by. She’d be beautiful if she’d bother to loosen her shoulders and unclench her jaw. Her frown reminds him of Kurosaki.

He falls asleep leaning against the window, thinking about the color of Kurosaki’s hair in the sun and how many stained glass windows in France had emulated that hue, but always falling short. 

 

When the plane lands, he sinks into his seat.

Ryuuken had told him Kurosaki had called him. Ishida’s not sure what to make of that. Kurosaki confuses him. He remembers telling him about killing the five Yakuza, he doesn’t remember what he said, but he remembers he hadn’t looked at him with ice-cold scorn.

Ishida picks up his luggage, a neat little rolling suitcase currently filled with wine, a bespoke suit and more wine. Now he just wants to go back to his apartment, preferably to sulk and get started on preparing his hangover. He has to consciously remember that his apartment isn’t on the lower Eastside anymore. He rubs his eyes. Maybe sleep first. Then tomorrow self-pity and wine.

On his way to the taxis, he spots two familiar faces. Kuchiki and Abarai are standing by the exit, arms crossed and scanning the crowd. He briefly considers buying another ticket back to France because it hits him how real it is, suddenly. He did lie to these people, did kill Llargo and was indeed shot in the abdomen by his one true love. But Ishida hates France and he hates how much of a coward he’s become.

There’s also Germany. He sighs angrily and the woman next to him looks frightened. Ishida doesn’t need to kill people, he doesn’t have to.

He walks towards Kuchiki and Abarai who spots him and straightens.

“Ishida!” they call out as if he hasn’t already seen them. God, these people.

He runs a hand through his hair and stops in front of them, “Before you say anything, I’ve just flown 9700 km without a wink of sleep, whatever this is, can it wait till tomorrow?”

He realizes that perhaps they’re here to arrest him. Goddammit.

“Hello, nice to see you too.” Kuchiki lifts her eyebrow and studies him. 

Ishida rubs his eyes and wonders why everybody always wants the unnecessary inanities of conversations. Since it’s not nice to see them, then why should he lie? It makes his insides twist and turn like a sleepless night and his heart sigh in disappointment because it isn’t Kurosaki who’s standing before him now. 

“How was France?” Abarai asks, something akin to disapproval in his tone. Most likely because Ishida crawled out of a hospital window in the middle of the night and left for a foreign country while he was still technically involved in a homicide-investigation. And Ishida gets that, he does. 

Instead, he shrugs, “I’ve come to the realization I hate France.”

“Then why’d you go?”

And wow, isn’t this a loaded question? 

“Because I didn’t know I hated France.”

They look at him like he’s a zebra in a fucking zoo. He’s so tired he can barely stand, though the cool air coming from the revolving doors are doing theirs to keep him awake.

He doesn’t have the energy to keep up his usual façade of casual aloofness and why should he anyways? He doesn’t have to impress them anymore, he’s not pretending to be a law-abiding probationary agent out to fight crime. He commits crimes. At this time of day, they’ll have to deal with the person he just so happens to be, instead of some mirage he’s created to confuse them. The truth is a harsh thing in the cold light of winter and so is the cold apathy that replaces the arrogance.

Ishida’s cared about few things. He learned at an early age that caring made you weak. 

“If there’s nothing else, I will retire to my boudoir to sleep.” He moves towards the door, and then because sleep-deprivation isn’t good for the impulse-control he adds, “Tell everyone I said bonjour.” 

“He deserves better than that,” Kuchiki says in a low voice. 

Ishida pauses and almost looks over his shoulder, “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

His apartment is cool and after he’s locked the door, he strips down to his skin and falls into bed, sleeping the day and the night and the day away.

 

Someone’s knocking on his door.

Who the fuck’s knocking on his door at … okay, three in the afternoon.

The knocking doesn’t desist. He rolls out of bed, yawning and looking at his luggage, making a solemn promise that he’ll be back soon. Wine all around – it’s three in the afternoon after all.

Ishida cracks the door open. Kuchiki’s standing outside, an impatient look on her face. “Can I come in?”

“I’m not wearing any pants,” he informs her. He doesn’t care if she’s to bask in his naked glory. She might though and then she might tell Kurosaki about it. 

“I’ll live.” She shoulders her way into his apartment and goes immediately for his kitchenette, firing up his espresso machine and making two cups of coffee. He stares at her for about 30 seconds before he remembers that he isn’t wearing any clothes at all and that his teeth feel like they’ve grown hair.

“Make yourself at home,” he says and goes to his bathroom. He pulls on a pair of slacks, opting for going commando. Not out of comfort, but he hasn’t had enough foresight to call for someone to pick up his clothes from his faux-apartment downtown. Or he could pick it up himself and pretend he’s an adult and not the spoiled brat he so desperately doesn’t want to be.

He brushes his teeth and forgoes cologne. She’ll live, as she said. He stares at himself in the mirror for about minute before he decides that he looks completely ridiculous. His father would shake his head disapprovingly if he knew how he was about to face the NPA. 

This is about the time he starts to wonder what exactly Kuchiki is doing here in the first place. He assumes she knows where he lives because they traced the accounts linked to Ishida Ametatsu, which honestly was as far as his creativity stretched when he was 18. It was probably through that they’d figured when he was due to land in Tokyo. He should stick to cash from now on. 

He checks that the Sig Sauer P226 he’s stashed in the cabinet is still there. He has about thirty different handguns hidden throughout his apartment. His rifles are stored under his bed or behind his suits. He doesn’t do shotguns. Shotguns are messy. God, he hates shotguns. Almost as much as he hates France.

“Did you drown?” Kuchiki calls after him and Ishida really doesn’t appreciate being ordered around in his own home. 

But for the sake of his doors (they can’t fool him, he knows Kuchiki could kick them in) he emerges from the bathroom, wearing a suitable slouch and a frown. He sits down at his dining-table (mostly decorative) in front of the cup of coffee she’s put in front of him. 

She’s watching him over the lip of her own, something in her eyes calculating. He doesn’t like being on the receiving end of this. Instead, he reaches out for the coffee and takes a sip.

“How’re you doing?” she asks him and that’s honestly one of the last things he would’ve expected to come out of her mouth. She doesn’t retract the question though, just waits for him to answer. 

He shrugs, “I’ve had worse. You can barely see it.”

He absentmindedly touches the puckering scar a little off-center from his solar plexus. It looks like a rugged circle. It’s still a little red, but in another month it’ll go away and the only lasting mark Kurosaki will have put on him was a morbid little love bite on his belly.

She gives him a look that says he misunderstood the question. He wants her to be more specific then. He’s not a fucking mind-reader. He eyes his suitcase longingly.

“Besides apparently hating France, I mean,” she tags on to a sentence she never spoke. Something like a smirk is tucking at the corners of her mouth and she lifts the cup to cover it. 

“I don’t hate France.”

She shakes her head, “Why’d you say so then?”

“I say a lot of things I don’t mean.”

He pushes the cup away and rests his head in his left hand. It still feels stiff. Cifer had broken his hand, had crushed his trigger-finger and stomped on his wrist, snapping that in the process as well. He can’t feel anything in his index-, ring-, and little finger anymore. 

He had forgotten everything about the blinding pain in his hand, when Kurosaki had tackled Cifer to the ground. Then he’d only felt fear. There was something in Kurosaki’s eyes then, something he recognized from the early mornings after he’d bathed in blood and misery, something in his reflection that spoke of a certain carelessness, a disregard for life, namely his own. 

When Cifer had kicked out Kurosaki’s knee … Ishida couldn’t stand to think about it. The sound, the look of searing pain in his face, the gasp of air. He wonders if Kurosaki’s still on duty or if he’s been benched until further notice. 

Something must show on his face, because Kuchiki sighs and says, “You can ask, y’know,” and folds her arms in front of her chest. 

He looks up at her and then rubs his neck, trying to push out a kink that’s been there since France, mostly trying to buy himself time.

“Why’re you here?” he settles on eventually. He knows what she inferred, but he doesn’t trust himself with the information. Again, Kurosaki confuses him and he’s got enough on his plate as it is, figuring out how to rebuild his life without selling his soul to his father and becoming a budding CEO or becoming a corporate lawyer of all things. If anything’s worse than a defense attorney, it’s fucking corporate lawyers. 

Maybe he should finish his law-degree, become a prosecutor, they seem like the natural enemy to defense attorneys.

She rolls her eyes and sighs again, a bone-weary thing it is, “I’m here because of Ichigo.”

Ishida sits back and crosses his arms, “In what capacity?” Because he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

She pulls her bag onto her lap and leafs through it, finally finding a package of paper. She hands it to Ishida and mirrors him. To outsiders they must look like divorcees. The distance they put between each other, the curtness of their replies and the clipped tones. Ishida’s seen a few in his years as a law-student. 

He pulls it towards himself. His frown deepens when he reads the titular-page. “You can’t be serious,” he breathes, but it’s more a thing of wonder and despair as opposed to disbelief and anger. 

“Take you time reading it and call me when you’ve figured out what you’re going to do,” she says. She might as well have added with you life, it hangs in the air like unpicked plums and when she rises she doesn’t bother saying goodbye. 

Or maybe she did. Ishida’s too far gone in the words written in the contract to notice.

 

“Kuchiki Rukia.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

“I want Thursdays off but otherwise I’m in.”

“Why Thursdays?”

“I don’t want to seem too eager.”

“Can you start Monday?”

“I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

 

Ishida spends the weekend sorting his shit out. He rents a car (he doesn’t have a real license, but he’d driven a scooter in Vietnam and considered himself an apt driver because of it. Besides, he drove with Kuchiki and Kojima, it obviously wasn’t a requirement to be a good driver when you had your license.) and drives to his faux-home and picks up everything he needs from there. He’d brought way too much clothes, he realizes on his third trip there. Maybe choosing a Toyota Yaris was stupid, in hindsight. He straps his bike to the car and sighs as he wrestles open the mailbox and takes out weeks’ worth of ads. 

He walks to the parking cellar where his motorbike is parked and drives it back home. Considers selling it.

Saturday he drinks wine and worries about Monday. 

Sunday he chain-smokes and waits for the sun to go down.

 

Ishida comes in Monday and immediately feels as if he should cover his head with his jacket. He suddenly realizes how close he is to seeing Kurosaki again and his stomach drops to his feet. He wonders why no one around him seems to notice he’s about to throw up. But then again, he has an excellent poker face he’s told. 

He’s wearing his Michael Kors sweater and a pair of Armani jeans he found in France. He doesn’t feel overdressed like he did the first time he was here, subsequently the first time he met Kurosaki. Not that the other noticed, he just slammed into his right shoulder, and kept running. To his credit, he’d turned his head and shouted, “Sorry!”

Kuchiki’d just told him to come in. She never specified where “in” was. So Ishida assumes it means her office.

He steps onto the elevator, wind still tickling his ears from biking here. He’s not sure what reactions he’d garner if he rode in on his motorbike, so for now it’s the manual one. There’s already a few people there, but they don’t seem to be a hurry. He’d forgotten his headphones, which means that when Kojima steps into the elevator he doesn’t have an excuse for not replying when he says: “Good morning, Ishida. I’m glad to see you took the deal.”

He’s smiling like he’s genuinely pleased to see him. Ishida knows better. He’s seen him with the press, he has no qualms using his soft smiles to manipulate the masses and apparently Ishida as well. Since he doesn’t have an excuse, he’ll just go will full-fledged ignoring. He knows he’s being a dick, but if these people knew how messed up he really was he isn’t sure he could ever live it down. They’re Kurosaki’s friends, for crying out loud, and he has a feeling that no matter what he does it’s going to reflect poorly on him. After all, they’ve made their stand and it’s not on his side, why would it? Suddenly, arrogance feels like a lonely place to anchor your ship. 

“Ichigo ran himself ragged for this, I swear. The Captain-Commander wasn’t easily swayed,” Kojima continues. Ishida continues looking ahead. Maybe he’ll take the hint and stop talking about Kurosaki. He truly feels like Kojima’s offering him a line of heroin so readily talking about him. He wonders if they know he was a smack-addict back in the day. They probably do. God, at this rate he’ll hate Japan before the week’s through.

Kojima gives him a quick, but judgmental look, “Kuchiki-san is probably with him now, trying to stop him from pacing a groove in the bullpen.”

Ishida closes his eyes and hopes, wills, prays that Kojima would stop talking about this like he still had any right to Kurosaki’s affections. He isn’t one for cultivating false hopes and broken hearts.

“So, I hear you have some strong feelings in regard to Ichigo’s dick?” Kojima says pointedly. It’s obviously designed to get his attention and it does. Ishida opens his eyes and the people around them shuffle awkwardly. Why on Earth does Kojima know this? He’s said as much when he was high as a kite on morphine and dilaudid (which had taken him back to the days he did smack at least every Thursday), he just didn’t realize Kurosaki wasn’t alone. France is starting regain its merits. 

Since Kojima obviously doesn’t have any issues airing laundry in public, Ishida steps out of the elevator on 4th, turns his head over his shoulder and remarks, “And you Asano’s, I hear.”

He smirks at Kojima’s scandalized expression. Serves him right.

 

In hindsight, it’s probably not wise burning bridges on the first day of work. 

Ishida moves through the labyrinth that’s the Organized Crime department, he tries to walk as if he belongs there, but he can’t help feeling like an imposter. 

Kuchiki’s office is rather spacious. She even has a couch. He sits down on that, removes his satchel (for once not burdened with guns, ammo or medical supplies. It’s so light these days) and finds his copy of 1984 as a little light reading while he waits. He’d finished Les Misérables while he was in France. Maybe some of all the sadness and ire he’d gained from that book had bled into that experience as well.

Ishida’s a very immersed reader. He prefers books to movies. He doesn’t know why but he can’t cry to films, not the same way he’ll bawl over a book. The last chapters of Les Misérables had been read through water in the blooming sunset and he straight out remembers laughing himself silly when he read Three Men in a Boat. 1984 makes him frown and think, just like Heart of Darkness does. He likes thinking. Sometimes he feels it’s the only thing he does really well.

He’s lost in thought, book open in his lap and eyes a million miles away, when Kuchiki comes in, slightly out of breath. “I told you I’d come get you in the lobby.”

“You really didn’t,” he says and closes the book.

“I ran into Kojima.”

He shrugs.

She gives him a sharp look but then moves to sit behind her desk. “I’d show you around but I can see you already know the ropes.”

He’d studied the floorplans to this place into oblivion his first week here. He knows every corner, every angle without security cameras, knows which floors to access by the stairs and which are interconnected through glass-bridges. Whatever was on the blueprints he knows, whatever was on public record. 

She breathes out then, “Alright, let’s get things straight before we start.”

This sounds ominous, he thinks.

“First off, you’re here because the information you possess are thought to be worth more than whatever crimes you’ve committed. This of course means that the contract’s only valid for as long as you continue to prove yourself useful, one way or another.”

“I know, I read it,” he interjects. He’s starting to regret not going with the idea of becoming a prosecutor. 

Kuchiki narrows her eyes, “Second, you don’t interrupt.”

Ishida mirrors zipping his mouth shut. It earns him a lifted eyebrow. 

“Third, Ichigo’s going to check in once in a while. Do I need to account for this when assigning you?”

He can’t help but look at her, frown and then say, “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Is this one of the times you say something you don’t mean?” She doesn’t sound angry or pitying, bless her, she simply asks. 

 

Kuchiki’s surprisingly easy to work with. She has another chair brought in, but tells him the couch is free for all. She explains where the breakroom his, but warns him that he should probably avoid the lunchroom. He understands, it’s probably not everybody here who’s happy to see him, specifically a narrow section of a bullpen in Homicide, especially not after the stunt he pulled this morning.

She hands him a pile of manila folders with the words, “Whatever you can tell us about these.”

Most of it is the aftermath of his own busts. He suspects she knows this and is using it to test his goodwill. Which is understandable, she’s taking a chance on him after all. He decides to sign those he was directly involved with and cross out those he might’ve brushed up against, the ones he knows about but didn’t cause are noted with the name of who was. The stacks cleared at the end of the day. Nobody can blame him for being uninformed. 

Kuchiki watches him move through the stack and goes through them as he does. She notes every signature he’s done and as the pile concerning his direct involvement grows disproportionate with the others, she gives him a worried glance.

When it’s dark outside and the piles have been registered and sorted, she leans back and eyes him with the same calculative stare she’d given him back in his kitchen.

“I might need you to write down all the crimes you’ve committed.”

“Might?”

“We didn’t think it’d be this extensive.”

Ishida watches the seven boxes and the loose files they couldn’t fit into them littering the room, couch, desk, floor. She has a point. 

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”

 

He’s up most of the night, pursing his lips and typing down every offense his committed since age 18. He tries to be scrupulously honest and not forego anything no matter how petty or small.

When he hands over his 30-page confession, she gives him a look of pure disbelief.

“Can you give me the highlights?”

“What do you mean?” he asks. He’s not sure what highlights could possibly mean in this context. The best crimes? The statistics? Should he have made a pie-chart?

“How many have you killed?” And okay, that’s blunt. She gestures for him to sit down as if they’re going to be here all morning and most of the afternoon. 

Ishida stays standing, “Six.”

“I’m sorry, 60?”

He can’t figure out if she’s being deliberately obtuse or if she has the shittiest hearing known to man. A flash of his Glock going off next to Kurosaki’s ear has him swallow. He wonders where Kurosaki is now, if he’s at his desk, working another homicide.

“No.”

“600?” she tries again and her eyes widen. Ishida mirrors her. How can he not? He’s not sure he’s even dealt with 600 Yakuza, let alone had them all on gunpoint. 

“No. Six as in five plus one.”

Kuchiki frowns, looking puzzled as if the notion of him not being a mass murderer is unfathomable. 

“I killed the first five on my 18th birthday, November 6th. I threw up in a dingy alley three blocks away and stayed home for a week varying between crying and retching. I missed three exams that I later had to retake because of this.”

Kuchiki‘s frown has softened on the edges, “And the sixth?”

“Llargo,” he meets her eyes, “And before you ask, yes, it was for Kurosaki.”

“I’m going to get us two cups of coffee, then I’m going to call Renji, have him join us with a box of donuts and we’re going to go through this list while we get powdered sugar all over our shirts. Deal?”

It’s a sense of gratitude that wells up and he nods because he can’t find the words just then. When she’s out of the door he closes his eyes and sighs. 

It takes the rest of the day, but he finds that he can’t object to their company or their interpretation and interest in his exploits covering the last nine year of his life. Kuchiki gives him a glance, once in a while, when he’s taking a bite of his donut and chuckling at something Abarai says, blowing powdered sugar everywhere, when he’s twirling his pen and crossing his legs or sometimes just when he’s looking through the list of all the laws he’s broken in the past decade. It’s odd how glaringly obvious the truth become when it’s put to paper. In his endeavor to lessen crime, he’s committed as many or more felonies than his adversaries. 

For once, he feels a pang of regret.

And even his pride of being a Quincy can soften the blow.

 

He’s taken to eating lunch in the lunchroom despite Kuchiki’s protests. People give him a wide berth, probably because they think he’s killed between 60 to 600 people. He’s picking the cheese out of his sandwich and wondering when he’d let himself sink so low as to buy lunch from a vending machine, but then finds he doesn’t care. He’s currently rebuilding himself, making amends and picking up the pieces of the life he thought he was right to live, he can cut himself some slack and eat shitty food if it means proving he’s not a coward.

It feels like a Sisyphean task. Hell, if he could get the stone over the hill in the first place that would be grand, but he’s stuck at rock bottom, it seems. He just wants to turn his back on the boulder and lean against it while cursing the world around him.

While he’s making a face at the lifeless, limp lettuce (and wow, he relates to a piece of salad, that’s a new low), someone sits down across from him. 

“You heard correctly, my dick is the bomb,” Asano says, and okay, this isn’t how Ishida imagined his lunch going. He lifts an eyebrow and keeps stripping his sandwich, if it keeps going at this rate there’s going to be two pieces of bread lathered in mayonnaise. That’s not appealing either, God how he suffers for his conscience.

“Good for you,” he says and looks up. Asano hasn’t brought any food and Ishida’s not sure if he’s pleased or saddened by the fact that the other has no intention of eating with him. He surprises himself sometimes with how lonely he is. He doesn’t mind being disliked, but he likes being liked. He’d gotten used to having people around him at all times. Coming out as a carrier criminal have people giving him a lot of elbowroom, an entire table of it actually.

“Okay, listen,” Asano says and takes the sandwich from Ishida’s hands, wraps it in the plastic from whence it came and lops it across the room, trying to hit the trashcan and failing. Ishida watches this and has no idea what this is about. All he can say is, “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t going to eat that.”

He was, even if it ended up being two pieces of shitty, mayonnaised bread, he’s fucking hungry.

“Don’t buy lunch from the vending machines in the lunchroom, the ones in the department breakrooms are better equipped and a good deal fresher because people actually eat them.”

“Why’re you telling me this?” he asks. Is it that obvious that he has no idea how lunch works?

“You’re emanating misery and I can’t enjoy my BLT while constantly catching whiffs of your manpain.” Asano’s crossed his arms and has leant back, studying Ishida. “Seriously though, are you alright? I wasn’t kidding about the misery part.”

“I’m hungry, but otherwise I’m fine,” he says and gives Asano a pointed look.

The other smirks, “I saved you from food poisoning there, don’t pretend you don’t secretly love me.”

“I wouldn’t want to come between Kojima and your dick.”

“Man, don’t even, Mizuiro and my dick are like Romeo and Juliet, civil hands unclean and all that.”

Ishida wants to tell him that Romeo and Juliet are as much a love story as Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds are about drugs. But Asano’s getting up and looking down at him, considering him before he says, “I’m sorry about the black hat-thing. I didn’t know.”

“It was years ago,” Ishida brushes him off, trying to make him understand that he doesn’t hold it against him. Asano eyes him with a sort of morbid curiosity. 

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he replies and clicks his tongue, “Ichigo says hi, by the way.”

“I’m not sure what to do with that.” Ishida’s getting up. There’s no point in suffering the lunchroom and further conversation if he’s not going to eat anyways.

Asano’s shrugging, “Hell if I know, he’s your boyfriend.” He leaves Ishida standing there absolutely dumbstruck and confused. Because he’s a person on the mend he allows himself a petulant, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

He’s not sure he ever was, honestly.

 

It’s February before Ishida speaks with Kurosaki. 

He’s visiting Inoue in the morgue and making stilted conversation because neither of them want to talk about the ten ton elephant in the room. Instead they talk about medicine and Ishida jokes with quitting the contract and applying to med school to which Inoue all but shouts he can’t. 

After that they stand in awkward silence, a dead body between them. Ishida’s never been too caught up with the physical aspect of death. Corpses doesn’t bother him, wounds, bones, blood is all just a part of a visual framework to him. He doesn’t get sick when he smells blood, instead he feels stronger, because he knows it’s not his own. It’s not outside the realm of possibility Inoue too feels disconnected from the bodies and the remains of them, but she fares them to the other side, carrying them across and protecting them while she does. She cares and that makes her weak.

He’s been getting along with Abarai and Kuchiki, the three of them sometimes eating lunch together. It still feels like he’s third-wheeling. Abarai has made it personal mission to guilt-trip Ishida about his involvement with Yakuza and Ishida honestly can’t say it isn’t working. Kuchiki has taken to smacking him in the back of the head with the files she’s frustrated with. He has no idea what that could possibly do to help. 

Kurosaki suddenly barges in, Ishida could hear someone approaching, loudly, talking with someone and lo! and behold, Kurosaki enters with Sado on his heels. 

They both stop dead in their tracks when they see him. Sado mostly because Kurosaki all but slams the brakes and comes to a halt in the middle of the pathway.

Ishida’s not sure what kind of a face he’s wearing then. He’s money is on apathetic, it’s usually what he falls back on when he’s stressed. His blood’s singing in his veins because Kurosaki’s in front of him, looking every bit alive and breathing as some paranoid part of Ishida had feared he wouldn’t be. 

Kurosaki’s wearing a splint on his knee, his hair’s a bit longer than last time Ishida saw him and his color a bit lighter, but that might well be from seeing Ishida on his turf. His eyes though, his eyes are every bit as open as ever. Ishida would love to say he looks terrible, but he doesn’t. He looks the same, as if the past few months hasn’t touched him at all. 

Ishida pushes himself off the table on which he’d been leaning and nods to Inoue, “I won’t disturb your work.”

He passes Kurosaki and Sado and all he can think to say is, “Kurosaki. Sado-kun.”

 

“Ishida?” 

He looks left and sees Sado coming towards him. He’s standing in the lobby, trying to figure the easiest way to avoid responsibility and run-ins like this one.

“Sado-kun,” he greets and turns back to staring at the floorplan.

“Are you going up?” he asks.

Ishida looks up and runs a hand through his hair, “I really should, shouldn’t I?”

“You should. He’s thinking a lot about you.”

“So I’m told,” Ishida agrees and sounds a lot less happy about it than his posture would indicate.

“You pierced his heart,” Sado says and Ishida wonders how he can say things like that without flinching. Ishida would’ve avoided every and all situation where a phrase like that would ever be necessary, but here he is, still standing next to Sado, not yet perished in the flames of mortification.

“Why did you go to France?” Sado questions him then, “It’s not like you to run like that.”

If Sado knew the half of it, he wouldn’t have tagged on the last part.

“You should see Shun, he might be able to help you with your mental health.”

“My what?”

“I realize I’m speaking out of turn, but you haven’t seemed like yourself for a long time.”

Ishida frowns and presses his lips together, “Just because I’m pining doesn’t mean I’m mentally ill.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve seen things, Ishida, and I doubt you’ve spoken to anyone about them. When you first came into the office, I could feel you were surrounded by ghosts. All I’m saying is, you put up this mask of indifference, but you’re hurting behind it. Ichigo can see that and he thinks it’s his job to fix you too.” Sado looks at Ishida, “You owe yourself some peace, Ishida.”

Ishida frowns, but before he can do anything other than look up, Sado’s heading towards the elevator, like he didn’t just push Ishida over a ledge and hadn’t even bothered to stay and watch him fall.

 

Ryuuken phones him while he’s still sleeping. He rubs his eyes and looks at his landline, hoping he can will it to shut the fuck up. It doesn’t of course, because his father knows him better than he cares to admit.

“Are you up yet?” he asks, lovingly and concerned like the exemplary parent that he is. Ishida groans and sits up, looking out the window. It’s white and grey, foggy at best. It’s 1.30pm but it’s Sunday so he can’t see why he should care. Apparently, they have weekends at Organized Crime unless there’s an active case. He’s spent the entirety of it in bed, trying to sleep as much as possible, ignoring the fact that it’s bright daylight outside. Sleeping beats being awake, to be honest.

“What do you want?” he asks and crosses his legs under the duvet. He keeps his eyes on Tokyo and tries to ignore the headache that’s already forming from talking to his father.

“I wanted to know how my only son was doing.”

“I’m working for the NPA,” he answers and watches as rain starts coming down and pearling on the windows.

“So I heard.”

The line goes quiet. It’s not unusual when they speak. It was proven a long time ago that they had very little to talk about. Rain sweeps across the city. Ishida sighs and wonders if this is normal, to have such a shoddy relationship with your father. 

Granted he hasn’t necessarily been the easiest child. Between his rather prolific sex life (which he absolutely doesn’t regret. Sex is one of the few pursuits in life that doesn’t leave him exhausted and wanting to go to bed), his vigilantism and a heroin-addiction it couldn’t be easy.

He’d found that his addiction was an easy way into the underworld. He suddenly blended in and could move throughout the shadows without anyone seeing him, because who noticed a junkie looking for their next fix. Once upon a time, the Quincy had worn white, had charged the Yakuza, bows drawn and teeth bared. They’d had the advantage in numbers, in weaponry, in tactics. Fighting an entire organization as a one-man-army is difficult. It would suit him fine to come charging, wearing white and a malicious smile, but he’d die before he even lifted his firearm. The Yakuza’s grown smart, he has to be smarter to fight them. So hiding in the gritty masses, listening for an opportunity he can exploit. Most of the time, being a Quincy means watching and waiting for a weakness to appear and then use it shamelessly.

“Honda wants to arrange a meeting this Monday,” Ryuuken says then.

“Monday’s are no good for me.”

He thinks he hears an amused huff.

“I’m going to stick with this,” he says as a way of explanation.

“It’s a lot more sensible than being a Quincy,” Ryuuken agrees. 

Ishida bristles, “I’m still a Quincy!”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

Ishida clenches his jaw but doesn’t rise to it. 

“It was good talking to you,” his father says, drawling. 

“Likewise.”

“Don’t lie, Uryuu, lying doesn’t suit you.”

And with that he hangs up.

 

Ishida’s currently in his chair, he’s come to think of it as his property though it’s owned by the NPA and placed in Kuchiki’s office, balancing on it’s two hind legs (a habit he developed in high school and hasn’t been able to lose since). March is streaming in through the windows and he realizes it’s five months since he and Kurosaki stopped being a thing and became separates. He hasn’t spoken to him in as long, unless you count “Kurosaki,” as part of that. 

God, he could still kick himself for that. Nothing says romance and affection like a cool pronunciation of your loved ones name. Maybe he should do advice-columns. Give other people as shitty advice as he gives himself, he’d be filthy rich for sure. He frowns, he already is, so that was a lame reason.

Birds are relishing the weakening grasp of winter and are fluttering outside, singing their mirth all the while.

He finished 1984 a while ago and has begun Brave New World. It’s odd how similar they are, yet how different. Controlled by either fear or love, there’s analogies here Ishida doesn’t want to admit to. Not that he’s making an awful lot of headway. He’s changing between watching the birds and reading and right now the birds are winning out.

There’s a knock on the door and reflexively he calls out, “She’s not here.”

People have gotten used to Ishida being a constant presence in Kuchiki’s office. Ishida had moved from reviewing old cases, to reviewing new cases, to doing actual fieldwork, having a field day doing it. Mostly because it reminded him sorely of being a probationary agent. He was to stay in the car at all times or sit with a sniper who could keep an eye on him if cars were out of the question. 

Kuchiki’s currently working out of Kobe, which leaves her office at Ishida’s disposal. She’ll send him e-mails with queries and jobs, but most of it’s secretary-work and it’s done before lunch. He then spends the rest of the day sitting in his chair reading, watching birds and telling people that Kuchiki’s out and won’t be back until next Wednesday.

There’s another knock and Ishida turns to look. The door’s open and in it is Kurosaki Ichigo.

Ishida, certified genius as he is, repeats his previous statement, “She’s not here.”

“I know,” Kurosaki says and there’s ghost of something fond in his face. Of course, Kurosaki would know this; he’s her best friend after all. Kuchiki had even given him the “If you hurt him (again) I’ll rip your balls out through your mouth” speech within the first days, before it became apparent to her that Ishida figured that ship had sailed.

Ishida lets the chair down and removes his feet from the desk, and gets up. Kurosaki’s friends have all been needling him, teaching him how to hope, but since the star of the shit-show that’s currently Ishida’s emotional life never offered anything himself, Ishida’s brushed it away, like he would a fly.

“What’re you reading?” Kurosaki asks, a stint in his voice. Ishida looks him over and finds the other to be uncomfortable. His hands are in his pockets and Ishida’s learned that’s Kurosaki trying to stop himself from doing anything rash. He keeps shifting his weight and his eyes. 

“Brave New World,” he answers simply.

“Any good?” Ichigo tries and even attempts to sound earnest.

Ishida shrugs, “I’m not finished yet.”

“Oh.”

Ishida opens his mouth to say something, but he has no words. He closes it again before Kurosaki sees him gaping like a codfish. Kurosaki himself is still standing in the door. “Can I come in?”

Ishida gestures for him to do so and goes to close the door. Kurosaki stands awkwardly inside, tapping his fingers on Ishida’s chair. He turns around and leans his weight on it and looks directly at Ishida.

“We should talk.”

“What about?” Ishida asks immediately and almost kicks himself. If he it hadn’t seemed like he was pining before, it certainly does now. Ishida thought that the months following his escape to France (fucking France) he would slowly, but surely fall out of love. Needless to say, he hasn’t, but he’s started to wonder if he’s in love with Kurosaki or the idea of him. 3am and booze are not necessarily a good combination.

Kurosaki shrugs, “I’d like for us to be friends.”

Ishida’s heart shatters right then and there, but he tries ignoring the sound of his blood rushing and his fingers twitching and legs itching to run away. But he’s here to face his problems, not to run from them, so he says, “How do you propose we do that?”

“We could grab a cup of coffee?” he asks, sounding uncertain, “Not here, obviously, somewhere else.”

Ishida considers him for a moment, trying to figure out how much wine he’ll need to cope with this. It seems he’s become an addict again. Either it’s Kurosaki, alcohol or heroin. Out of the three, Kurosaki seems the healthiest, but then again, he’d killed a man for him, so maybe not.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Kurosaki hurries to say, almost tripping over himself as he does.

Ishida shakes his head, “No, I just … no, yeah, we can have coffee.”

The tentative smile on Kurosaki face, one that actually lights up his eyes makes Ishida feel warm, all the way to the tips of his toes. He’s so fucked.

 

“What’s you favorite song?” Kurosaki asks him as they’re making their way to a Starbucks close by. Ishida will grant him this, Kurosaki is putting a lot of effort into assuring him it’s two friends-to-be getting coffee and not a date. God, Starbucks is the least romantic place he can think of.

“Why?” he counters out of habit. 

Kurosaki rolls his eyes, “Never mind.”

Ishida feels like he fucked up royally there. So, to make amends he says, “The Zookeeper’s Boy by Mew.”

Kurosaki rewards him with a smile. “I haven’t heard it.”

“You should, it’s pretty great, it was the song I‘d get high to.” He doesn’t realize what he’s said before it’s out of his mouth. Kurosaki does something to his impulse control and it’s one of the few things Ishida’s prided himself of never losing. 

“Why’d you do drugs?” Kurosaki asks then. It lacks judgment, but there’s an edge to it, a bit resigned, perhaps like sadness. Ishida remembers Ryuuken using much the same tone when he’d come to pick him up from the police station. He’s on edge because of it, it’s a pavlovian response by now.

Ishida shrugs tightly, “I hated law school.”

“Hating law school can’t land you in a heroin addiction.”

“You don’t get to dictate my life, asshole. If I hated law school and did smack to make myself feel better about it, then that’s not yours to lord over.” Ishida can feel his cheeks burning. “I’m not proud of having done heroin.”

“All I’m saying is that I went to college and I actually finished my degree without having done drugs, so it’s probably more to do with you being –“

“A murderer? Is that what you were going to say?” Oh boy, and Kurosaki doesn’t even know the half of it.

“No, it would be more likely that it had something to do with the trauma–“

Ishida huffs, “That’s it, I’m going back.”

“Wait! Ishida!”

 

“What’s with the long face?” Kuchiki asks Wednesday.

Ishida’s resting his chin on his folded arms, resembling a teenager during their worst year in high school. He’d spend the weekend torn between doing a line of heroin in protest or sending a list of his favorite songs to Kurosaki. It’s saved in his drafts and looks like this:

Kurosaki, you asked what my favorite song was. I have a few more that I didn’t get to mention – some of them I didn’t even get high listening to.  
• The Zookeeper’s Boy by Mew  
• Glory and Gore by Lorde  
• Mykonos by Fleet Foxes  
• Don’t Swallow the Cap by The Nationals   
• Miles and Miles by Turboweekend  
• You’re a Wolf by Sea Wolf  
• Technicolour Beat by Oh Wonder  
• Beat City by The Ravonettes

Up yours, Ishida.

He’s sorely tempted to add something profane but chances that he’s going to send it are slim. 

“I had coffee with Kurosaki,” Ishida replies.

“I don’t understand,” she frowns and puts down her folder.

Ishida sinks further into his arms, “We didn’t even make it to Starbucks before we started fighting and I left because he was being an unmitigated asshole.”

“Starbucks?”

“I don’t know. He wants to be friends and Starbucks is possibly the most platonic place you could take someone you used to screw through the mattress.”

“Or he thought you’d like it. You always brought Starbucks in the morning.” Kuchiki probably had some insights that Ishida quite frankly couldn’t say he possessed, but most of his weekend had comprised of wine, listening to his eight favorite songs and feeling sorry for himself. 

He shook his head, “It was convenient.”

She sits down at her desk and watches him carefully, “What did you fight about?”

“My heroin addiction.” He lifts his head and sits back. 

She frowns and lifts her eyebrow, “You lost me again.”

“It started with him asking my favorite song and I told him and before I checked myself I added that I used to get high to it, as a little fun fact.”

The look she gives him is scrutinizing, but born out of puzzlement. Like he’s just told her something like water travels upwards where he’s from. “I don’t get how someone like you ended up doing heroin?”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. Smart, well-read, dedicated, privileged, how did they get someone like you?”

He rolls his eyes, “Heroin doesn’t just jump you in a dark alley, you choose to do it.”

“But why?”

“Because I hated law school.” 

“Why would you fight about this?” Kuchiki asks, eyes on the prize.

“Because he didn’t let me get past, I hated law school, before he was rationalizing my addiction and comparing it with his own experience, even adding that he actually finished his degree without touching drugs, like good for him, he didn’t kill five people before he started.” The words are bitter on his tongue and he relishes in feeling something powerful. 

Kuchiki doesn’t say anything, just watches him and then hands him her phone. He’d thrown his in the Seine and hadn’t bothered buying a new one. He’s always in the office or his bed anyways.

“Call him and tell him to meet you at Starbucks.”

“What?”

She doesn’t relent and just thrusts the phone his direction. They stare at each other, Kuchiki’s the first to break, because Ishida’s never lost a staring contest in his life and he’s not about to begin. 

“Call him or so help me.”

 

Ishida’s sitting by the window, staring at the snow tumbling down to the ground. March is apparently one for surprises. No one seems to mind though. It’s thick and pure, though it turns to brown sludge when it hits the ground. His copy of Brave New World is in front of him open but unread. If there’s a window, Ishida’s like a moth to a flame. That’s why his apartment is marked by huge panes of glass, flanking Tokyo. He’d looked for a year and a half before he found it and he loves it. Especially in his bedroom, where the window’s replaces the wall.

“Hi,” Kurosaki says, standing by the chair. Ishida’s throat goes dry, because Kurosaki with melting snow and red-tipped ears is a delight he never thought he’d see. He closes his book and removes his satchel from the seat across. Ichigo sits down, carefully.

“Rukia told me I was an insensitive idiot.” He removes his jacket, his eyes flickering up to Ishida, “I’m sorry.”

Ishida looks out the window again, wondering how many strings Kuchiki is pulling. “It’s fine. Or, it’s not fine, but I accept your apology.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed. You just keep throwing me,” he sound annoyed. 

Ishida pushes his coffee between his hands. Kurosaki’s turning his. It says Ichino on the side. Ishida can’t help looking out the window again. Some people can’t look away from a turned on television, Ishida, it seems, can’t look away from big panes of glass.

“I heard it, y’know,” Kurosaki suddenly blurts out.

Ishida turns his head back, “Yeah?”

“I can see what you mean.”

They’re quiet again. Kurosaki’s drinking his coffee, a good deal more careful with his questions this time, but honestly, who can blame him, last time he’d asked about music and they’d ended with drug use. Maybe that’s what they should do, take the shitty subjects off the table first and if they can look each other in the eyes after that, they might just stand a chance.

“I have another tattoo,” he says, nonsensically. 

Kurosaki looks up, intrigued none the less, “I’m afraid to ask where it is.”

And point, because there’s not an inch of his body Kurosaki hasn’t had his mouth on. He’s still amazed by the fact that Kurosaki hadn’t noticed his dragon tattoo. He thought he had. He’d been fucking pissed when Kurosaki had gone out drinking with Kuchiki and subsequently shown up with a hangover, to Ishida it had seemed like he didn’t care at all. He’d decided to take care of it himself then, when he obviously couldn’t trust Kurosaki to do it.

“Here,” Ishida replies and point to his chest. “It’s a Quincy Pentacle, UV-ink.”

Kurosaki watches his chest for a full minute before he looks away and takes another drink. “Do you ever wonder if we could’ve saved any of them if we’d stopped sleeping together?”

“No,” Ishida answers, “Because questions like that will eat your soul away. They made a deal with the Devil and the minute they shook his hand their fate was sealed. The game wasn’t designed to be won.”

Ishida has learned that separating the world into right and wrong is a good tool for when you can’t sleep, when you can’t trick yourself into apathy.

“You survived,” Kurosaki counters softly, but his eyes are sharp when he looks up. 

Ishida shrugs and looks out the window again. Golden light from a cold sun is streaming through the city, lighting it like a cathedral and it makes Kurosaki’s hair shimmer like molten copper. He wants to say it was because he was a better player who knew how to play an 893, but he’s not sure he can believe it himself right now. 

“Why’d you leave?” he asks then. Ishida’s still watching the street and doesn’t turn, because the question is spoken delicately, as if it belonged in a confessional as opposed to a noisy Starbucks. 

“Ishida?” And he’s helpless against that, “Why’d you leave?” It’s harsher and a good deal more determined. If the first was a stray thought, this is the battle cry it fosters.

Ishida turns back to him and looks him in the eye, “Because I killed Llargo and the only reason why, was because he was about to kill you.”

“I’d say it was a rather good reason,” Kurosaki tries for a vague smile, but when he sees Ishida’s expression his changes accordingly.

“I can’t kill,” Ishida says and knows it’s nonsensical, because he has, but Kurosaki’s frown changes to a thing of sadness as opposed to a thing of seriousness or severity.

Kurosaki stills, “But you killed Llargo anyway.”

It doesn’t sound harsh, not like he had when he’d accused Ishida of killing people as a hobby. And that had stung, because it had thrown the 6th of November right in his face and he’d felt like puking again. Now, it sounds almost bemused.

“Kurosaki,” he says then and the other looks at him, “I admit I lied to you, used you and manipulated you. At first, I acquisitioned you for sex because I sensed that’s what you wanted from me and I admit I may not be difficult bed, but there’s only two people in this world I’ve killed for.” 

He gets up and puts on his coat and slings his satchel over his shoulder while adding, “You’re not just a number.”

He leaves Starbucks and ducks out into snow, feeling drunk on honesty, but needing to be drunk on wine, because this might very well have been worse than their first attempt at coffee.

 

It goes against every instinct he’s ever had, but he’s currently standing outside Inoue’s apartment. He’d asked her yesterday if Shun was available and she told him he should be home unless he’d gone out to help at the animal shelter nearby. Sometimes Ishida gets tired thinking about doing something other than work, sometimes getting out of bed in the morning was at times an insurmountable task, so how Shun has the energy to do beyond anything he should is beyond him.

He knocks on the door and within 30 seconds, Shun opens the door, “Ishida-san. Orihime said you might stop by. Come in.”

Ishida steps inside and Shun closes the door behind him.

“Welcome. I’ll make us some tea. The living room’s that way, just make yourself at home,” Shun says and disappears, leaving Ishida in the hall. He feels a little overwhelmed. Mostly because the last time he saw Shun he’d been a broken man. Maybe that’s what Inoue does to people, gives them enough strength to carry on. He could use some of that. The only thing keeping him pushing forward is sheer stubbornness. He has an image, he’d like to keep it.

He takes off his shoes and his jacket, his scarf and hangs it on the hooks by the door. Shoes are just pushed to one side, it seems and so he does as they do in Rome. He goes into the appointed living room. It’s welcoming like a home should be and Ishida feels at ease, if still a little high-strung. There’s this bohemian vibe in the room, bookshelves with books, yes, but also pictures of the two of them, of their friends, potted plants and jars with beads. There’s a comfortable couch with pillows and blankets. They have a radio on the coffee table and a pile of newspapers from every region of the country as well as issues from car magazines. It’s like the sun is defying every weather god there are to shine through their windows.

The radio’s on and it’s playing old jazz.

“Here you go, have a seat,” Shun says behind him and hands him a cup of tea. Ishida sits down on the couch and takes a sip.

“I was hoping you’d stop by.”

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Ishida says and almost wants to kick himself.

Shun shakes his head, “No worries, I wasn’t too busy.”

“I want to apologize for being so insensitive to you when Inoue-san was missing.”

“You had a lot on your mind,” Shun deflects, “You still do.”

“Sado-kun said that?”

“Orihime,” he corrects and Ishida gets the feeling that he’s been talked about. He hates being talked about. 

He presses his lips together, “I’m not … I’m fine.”

Shun nods and takes a sip of his tea, “I’ve always liked this music. It reminds me of my grandmother.”

“Is that so?” Ishdia inquires to remain polite. When he’s finished his tea, he will excuse himself, go home and forget he ever thought he was anything but fine.

Shun hums, “After she lost her first husband, she travelled to America and fell in love with a jazz-musician. They got married and returned to Japan. Her parents disowned her for marrying an American.”

Ishida finds himself intrigued despite himself.

“They wanted her to find a respectable Japanese veteran, but she said she’d had enough of the war.”

“Her first husband fought in the Second Sino-Japanese War?” Ishida asks quietly after a little math.

Shun nods, “Orihime told me the Quincy were send there to be massacred.”

“They were. My grandfather barely avoided being drafted.” 

Ishida warms his hands on cup and swirls the tea around, watching the deposit circle the bottom. When he’d been younger and he would stay with them during the school week, he would never have been allowed to play with the china like this. 

“You lived with your grandparents, right?” Shun asks and leans back. Ishida feels rigid but tries to loosen his posture to mirror Shun and not seem too uncomfortable.

“On the weekdays, yes.”

“I envy you, my grandma was the best, I would gladly have moved in with her. She learned to play the trumpet so her and grandpa could jam together. He plays the piano, tried teaching me, never got the hang of it.” Shun smiles. It’s so disarming. Different from Kojima’s because Kojima always carries this air of trickery, perfumed with charming smiles. Shun just smiles like he wants to.

Ishida ends up forgetting he was supposed to leave after he finished his tea. Shun lets him talk about his grandfather, his grandmother, his mother, his father, his family and what it meant to be a Quincy, but not being a Quincy per se anymore. Suddenly he found himself talking about the expectations they’d had for him, the ones his mother and grandfather hadn’t shown they had, but he felt they’d had and how different they’d been from his father’s and his grandmother’s. How he too had played piano and hadn’t quit until he’s dropped out of law school as well.

“Why did you quit law school?” Shun asks and pours him another cup of tea. 

“I hated everything I’d become during law school,” he answers, “I went there to make amends. I thought I could fight for my grandfather’s ideals using the law instead of killing people, but I just found out how many people fought for personal gain as opposed to anything high-minded.” He takes a sip of tea, licking his lips, “It depressed me, because I’d become a part of that, I’d become one of them. I took the internship with Kurosawa because he was the best, and I didn’t care who he represented. It was at one of his staff-parties I did my first line of smack. And I didn’t stop until Ryuuken picked me up at the police station and told me I should go visit my mother and my grandfather and tell them what I’d been up to. I spend three months after dropping out having withdrawals and binge watching shitty animes.”

He pauses and adds, “I guess, I quit law school because I thought it’d be different. That I’d be different.”

He’s never put it in words before and even though he isn’t expecting anything, Shun nodding and continuing their conversation about a court case he’s called in to witness for, wasn’t what he expected. They talk about the legal system until Inoue comes home. She’s smiling but obviously tired, so Ishida excuses himself and leaves.

Leaving the apartment, he feels quieter.

Less hollow.

Lighter.

 

Ishida had gotten the dragon Friday, November 13th. He’d withdrawn a large amount of cash and headed for the Shop. Urahara had friends on the other side and the other side had the best artists. He didn’t want some shitty plebian tattooist do this epitaph, he needed someone with a steady hand and an eye for sinners and repentance. 

Urahara had recommended a guy named Hikaru, who, when Ishida had turned up, had proved to be female. None the less, she was exactly what he needed.

She’d drawn him the stencil while he waited, staring out her window and wondering if getting tattooed by the kumicho-artist herself made him one. His grandfather had passed the title to Ryuuken, but his father had rejected all connection with the Quincy. Ishida supposed this made him a kumicho. If a king’s unwilling to rule, the prince must do the honors.

He sat in the chair for eight hours straight. Neither of them spoke. She just ran the needle over his back, drawing a white dragon from his blood, surrounded it with chrysanthemum and clouds, looking at the sky. 

 

They have coffee every Tuesday henceforth. At first it’s painful. Ishida constantly feels as if he’s being tested. Kurosaki uses the same tone of voice as when he questioned him about Shizuoka and Kurosawa. Ishida’s made to feel wary, but also realizes that the way to redemption is laced with thorns and truths, so he answers and explains as best he can. 

“When you cuffed me,” Kurosaki begins and Ishida should have known where this was headed. He’s already sighing and rolling his eyes, “was that a case of manipulating me with sex or was it a spur of the moment decision?”

Kurosaki does this a lot. Asking if something had been planned or if it had been improvised. He seems to want to know how much of this, theirs, them had been a part of Ishida’s nefarious schemes to take down the NPA from the inside. 

What Kurosaki didn’t seem to understand was that there hadn’t been a plan in the first place. He’d joined the NPA chiefly for his own reasons. Granted, Urahara had warned him about something rotting the insides of the organization, but a pair of eyes on the inside couldn’t be amiss. Overall, it was intended to flush out the insider, but it was supposed to be a long con. He wanted to tell Kurosaki that he’d been about to sublet his place and had moved all kitchenware and good clothes to his faux-home. He wanted to tell him that, as cliché as it may sound, he wasn’t a part of the plan and there hadn’t been one in regards to him. Had he played him at work? Yes. Had he taken advantage of his position as probationary agent to further his own agenda? Indeed. Had he ever tried manipulating Kurosaki in private to find out what he knew? Never.

Ishida had in Kurosaki found a lonely soul like his own and had decided to go with it. He’d noticed the way Kurosaki looked at him, noticed the way he would linger on certain parts of his anatomy. He’d known almost immediately that Kurosaki wanted to shag him and since the feeling was/is mutual, he’d decided to sing Let it Be and run with it.

“The sex wasn’t planned,” Ishida answers, “The cuffs were an insurance.”

Kurosaki looks pensive. There’s a tiny line between his eyebrows and Ishida wants to lean forward and kiss it away, but he’s attempting to be a strictly heterosexual point of interest. It sucks honestly, because he hasn’t been straight a day in his life.

Kurosaki spends the rest of their rendezvous frowning and questioning him about the sex. In the end, Ishida’s nerves are fraying and he exclaims, “Kurosaki, if you’re going to question every time I touched your dick –“

“Rukia told me you’ve had sex with other people,” Kurosaki interrupts him. 

Ishida frowns, “Do you talk to each other about me?”

“You said you were easy,” he starts and then asks, “Did you sleep around when you were in France?”

Ishida stares at him. He doesn’t sound scandalized, he already knows the answer to this, and yet he wants to hear Ishida say it. What kind of masochistic behavior is this? He can tell Kurosaki’s upset with this fact, he’s not meeting his eye and he’s fidgeting. 

“As a matter of fact I did.” His voice has grown cold, a gust of January wind in the beginning of April. The city’s only just beginning to enjoy the timid spring smiles. 

“Wow,” is the only response. 

Ishida takes a deep breath but forces himself to stay seated. People are wearing summer dresses and sunglasses outside, but the table feels icy to the touch and the air between them is growing chilly.

“Don’t you care?” Kurosaki asks then and Ishida looks up.

“About?”

“Yourself?”

Ishida hasn’t been slut-shamed since college where he slept with a TA and a dude named Wataya or some shit found out. He’d spent the latter part of the year reminding Ishida that he’d taken dick like a pro and loved swallowing cum. Ishida didn’t bother correcting him, at this point he hated law school and he hated his life. Sex and smack were about the only two things recreational activities he had going for him. 

“You didn’t seem to mind my extensive know-how when you were the benefactor,” he says this with as insincere a smile as he can muster. He turns his face towards the window and feels his insides grow wintry. He wants to tell Kurosaki that France had been a mistake from beginning to end, and he’d always closed his eyes picturing it wasn’t some dark haired Frenchmen with him. He does and he doesn’t. At this point he’s not sure if he’s salting the Earth or sewing fresh seeds. 

“Don’t be crude,” Kurosaki says. It always surprises Ishida how virginal he can be. Especially considering the things he’s done to Ishida and had Ishida do to him. 

“Don’t be a prude,” Ishida responds and watches Kurosaki scrub his face.

“Do you have any idea how it felt being told about this? And not from you, no, I had to hear it Rukia and Renji fucking joke about it during breakfast.” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Ishida considers him, “Why’s this so important to you?”

Kurosaki starts chuckling and runs his hands through his hair, “If you don’t know by now, I won’t ruin the surprise.”

Ishida lies up all night wondering if he should let himself culture hope or let the Earth be salted.

 

He visits Shun the next day. Shun doesn’t seem surprised to see him. He just invites him inside and makes them a cup of tea.

They’re listening to jazz again. It’s a cloudy day outside, but the living room’s still colored by sunshine despite rain dotting the window.

“Why’s it so important to you?” Shun asks him, sipping his tea and watching him carefully.

Ishida frowns, “I enjoy sex. It makes me feel validated.”

Shun nods, looking very much like a psychologist then. Ishida appreciates him not converting these talks into words in pencil and never asks anything too direct. He likes to make Ishida draw his own conclusions and answer his own questions. From talking with Shun he’s come to understand he might’ve underestimated the effect his grandfather and mother’s passing might have had on him. 

“Kurosaki doesn’t understand that, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“May I speak frankly?” Shun asks him. Ishida nods. 

“I don’t think you should strike up a relationship with Kurosaki before you’re ready for it.” 

Ishida finds that he agrees.

 

Ishida’s flung himself in the couch and is enjoying the sunray currently resting there. Behind his eyelids, everything’s orange and he can’t figure out if it’s the same hue as Kurosaki’s or if it’s a few shades off. It has the same radiance, that’s for sure. In many ways Kurosaki’s like that sun. 

May is blooming outside and the sanitation-crews are sweeping away the fallen cherry flowers. Ishida can’t help but love May for how uncomplicated everything always seems this time of year. 

“Am I crude?” he asks Kuchiki. He interrupted her exposition of a case they’re working on. It’s the Taiwanese, they’re moving towards the Yakuza’s territories now that it’s lost most of it’s prominent leaders. They’d caught Galga yesterday, marking him the last of the Espada. There’d been champagne and toasts. Ishida had been invited, he hadn’t gone. At 4am he’d gotten a call from Kuchiki shouting at him for turning the party down, he’d had as much to do with this as any of them, Hell, he’d been the tenth victim, oh yeah and Ichigo’s pining!

Ishida had fallen asleep immediately after and he’s not sure if it actually happened or if it was a dream.

“You’re rude, that’s for sure,” she says, her hangover still smudged under her eyes, and relaxes into her chair. “Is this an extension of the “Am I a prude?” talk I had with Ichigo a few weeks ago?”

“You do talk about me!” He opens his eyes, sits up and turns to her accusingly. 

 

Kuchiki shrugs, because she’s an awful human being. “He called you crude?”

“He was angry that I have sex and that I don’t mind verbalizing it,” Ishida lays back down. “And he wasn’t appreciative of me not being forthcoming and telling him I had sex in France.”

“Do you know who Kumiko is?” Kuchiki asks suddenly then.

Ishida sighs, “What does she have to do with anything?”

He knows who Kumiko is. Kurosaki never mentions her, but there are traces of her all over his apartment. Fingerprints from a previous life. Sometimes Ishida thought he could smell her when he entered the place. And it was small things, like a vase in the window, a pillowcase or a feeling of rainy days that alluded to her importance. 

“What do you know about her?” Kuchiki chases.

Ishida shrugs, “She broke his heart?”

“Kumi worked here a while. She was an art-student but you know. So she got a job here, making coffee, copying paper, the like. She and Ichigo began flirting, began dating, moved in together. We all thought it was too fast. But, you know Ichigo. And it was nice seeing him smiling a lot more, relaxing, taking days off …”

Ishida grows sad listening to this. He doesn’t want to hear about Kumiko or how good she was for Kurosaki. If he could continue to pretend he didn’t know of her, didn’t notice the little pieces of her scattered throughout the apartment, that would be preferable. But he’s also curious. He wants to know if he’s anything like Kumiko, she’d had something like what Ishida’d wanted, might still want.

Because he’s been having coffee with Kurosaki every Tuesday and he’s realized that he knew nothing about Kurosaki before. He’d fallen in love with a pale imitation of him, when he’d been ragged and tired, annoyed and frayed. The Kurosaki he’s come to know is tranquil in a way that speaks to his maturity, like he’s seen thousands of worlds already, seen them rise, seen them fall. There’s a certain calm to him when he’s just relaxing. He’s funny, even. He rests in himself, has such an easy confidence that Ishida envies him and tries to angle his shoulders in a way that mirrors his. 

He feels better in his company. Yes, Kurosaki says things that hurts him, that angers him, that inflames him, but that’s more than what he can say about the most of the world. Ishida has fallen into a pit where he doesn’t feel much of anything. With Kurosaki, even if he infuriates him, the fire has Ishida burn for hours and it seems to incinerate the loneliness, the guilt, the sadness that’s clung to him since he can remember. With Kurosaki he feels as if he’s good enough. 

“Ichigo stopped hanging out with us.” Kuchiki looks down, “Me in particular, but he didn’t see much of the others either. When we’d be working, Kumiko would be standing close by, constantly eyeing us, keeping watch over him. I don’t think he meant to, but he started shutting us out. And Ichigo doesn’t do anything be halves. 

“The worst part of it, was that we all liked her. When they both finally came out to have fun with us, it was the best of times. We used to go out every Thursday. At first, it was just Ichigo and I, then Kumi joined us. We used to drink coffee together in the morning, then Kumi joined us. We used to spend the weekends together, sometimes all of us, sometimes only Ichigo and me, and suddenly Kumi was there too. No matter what he did, she did. And we loved her. Then Ichigo stopped talking to me.”

Kuchiki takes a deep breath, “I wondered if it was something I’d done. Sado-kun told me that Kumi thought Ichigo was cheating on her with me. She only allowed Inoue’s company because she’d been dating Shun a year then.

“It was Asano and Kojima who cornered him one afternoon and asked him if he’d seen me recently. They told me that the look in his eyes was complete confusion. He hadn’t known. Kumi had manipulated him so artfully that he hadn’t even realized it was happening. He made a point of seeing me after that, seeing all of us. Kumi didn’t like that. So one day she just packed up her things and left. She didn’t even leave him a note, she just up and disappeared. Asano found out she’d moved to Nagoya. We never told Ichigo we found out where she went, he’s never asked either.”

Kuchiki gives him a look, he can’t see it, but he can feel it. He can almost feel her getting agitated. Her voice, when she speaks again, has a hard edge to it, like broken glass and gravel.

“Ichigo was miserable. He stopped coming out on Thursdays, didn’t bother with anything that wasn’t work. In a way, Kumi had completely destroyed him, made him a stranger to us. We tried everything. We asked him out, we came to him, we planned parties and such, but even when he was there he wasn’t there. He continued to be miserable for 13 months until he met you.

“The reason he’s so Goddamn obsessed with you and your sex life, your heroin addiction and your shitty attitude is because he found someone he thought understood how misery felt and when you turned out to be a fucking traitor, you broke him all over again. So when you ask me if I think you’re crude, you’re missing the entire point of those Tuesdays.”

Ishida feels his throat tighten. He should’ve known, really. He doesn’t want to be here now. Even though he’s supposed to have quit cowardice, he knows he’s going to run. Instead of hurrying to his feet, he rises slowly and walks to the door.

She has a point though.

He’s been rather selfish.

“Are you alright?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“It’s Thursday,” he says, with a voice that’s dead even to his own ears, “I shouldn’t be here.”

 

Ishida spends the rest of the weekend in bed, watching the spring showers fly over the city and counts the drops on his window. He ignores calls and texts. He did that once before and had felt like a child being scorned.

The weather reminds him of the time he got the Quincy Pentacle tattooed. 

Ryuuken had insisted he stay with him until he was fit to take care of himself again. He’d stayed in the apartment he grew up, where no pictures of him hung on the walls or any drawings he’d made had been framed. Whatever trophies, whatever diplomas, whatever ribbons he’d won had always hung in his grandparents’ house. When his grandfather had died, he’d stopped competing in science fairs for fun, had stopped playing the piano out of enjoyment, he did it out of duty. He still did archery, but that was because it satisfied something deep in his soul, like he didn’t have to dial down his murderous intent when he let those arrows go. 

When his grandfather had died, Ishida lost one of the few people who genuinely cared for him because he was Ishida Uryuu, not because he was the next Quincy. His mother had been the second. His grandmother was like his father. It mattered more to her that he practiced his aim or his piano and his hand-to-hand combat than how many friends he’d made. It slowly but surely became all Ishida worried about, because in their eyes, it was the only thing that gave him worth and subsequently, the only thing he thought gave him worth.

He’d opened his eyes one evening and for once not felt his veins itch for a shot of heroin. He felt empty, he felt clean. He’d felt pure and young and worthless. It had been September and the sky had been heavy and leaden, filled and flowing with water. He’d gone outside, hadn’t bothered with a coat. He’s not sure if what he’d wanted to do was run away from home and into the rain and hope it would flush him away, wash his hands of the insanity and the blood that had come to follow him like a shadow. 

When the sky opened he’d closed his eyes and cried with the sky.

The streets had been vacant and the rain had been cold.

He’d gone to Hikaru and sat in the chair, looking out the window while she had made him a cup of tea and asked him if he had anything in mind. He drew her a crude version of the Quincy Pentacle, she’d redrawn it and made it exquisite. 

While she’d turned on the blacklight and readied the ink, he promised himself that he’d never let anything or anyone dictate his life for him again. When she inked the pentacle, he closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the needle. Back then, it had sounded a lot like freedom.

 

Ishida excuses himself the next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that. He stays in the office and pours himself into the Taiwanese conflict. He’s dealt with the Taiwanese before. They’re a volatile bunch, but they’re not nearly smart enough to outwit the Yakuza. It’s always been something he’s admired about them, the way they worked smartly and not pompously. 

It’s come to the point where he can tell when Kurosaki might be stopping by from Kuchiki’s body language. He excuses himself 45 seconds before Kurosaki turns around the corner. Kuchiki’s tried to stop him, to stall him, but he simply asks her why on Earth he can’t alleviate his bladder like any other and disappears out the door. The trick is to make it seem accidental. 

He’s begun going downstairs for coffee again, to the vendor in front of the keishicho. When Kuchiki asks him why he was gone so long, he lifts his cup and gives her a mask of simple pleasures. 

In many ways, it feels like September and October all over again. Lying through his teeth to cover his bases. It’s a game he knows and one he plays well. He makes sure his work is solid and that his attitude is seemingly on the mend, when the clock strikes 5pm he’ll stretch and call it a day, leaving Kuchiki ample room to have him stay and when she doesn’t object, he slips out and hurries home. 

He’s filling his nights with Fallout 4. But most of the time he pauses the game and looks out the window. He doesn’t want to think about Kumiko, Kurosaki, Kuchiki, all he knows is that he’s steadily growing angrier and angrier. He feels like himself, suddenly, angry with the world and a few of the people in it.

Ishida begins taking Thursdays off.

It’s on one such that he leaves his apartment and goes to Hikaru. She looks up from her magazine and lifts her eyebrows, “Word on the street says you’re working for the NPA now.”

“Word on the street is right,” he says (and feels proud of it) and dumps down in her sofa, “Is that a problem?”

She shrugs then, “Not to me.”

He flips through her books and tries to figure out what he wants. He knew he was coming back here the moment he put that bullet through Llargo’s skull. 

It’s an intricate geometric pattern that catches his attention. He points to it and she nods. The rest of the appointment passes in silence. She draws a stencil and places it below his sternum, working the pattern around the scar Kurosaki left him. She prepares the white ink and frowns when she starts. The needle’s grazing his ribs and the pain is overwhelming, but it helps clear his thoughts. 

This time, the needle sounds like letting go.

 

They’re sitting calmly and drinking their tea when Shun suddenly asks, “What happened the night your grandfather was killed?”

Ishida immediately tightens, “Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s the root trauma. Every major choice you’ve made has been influenced by this. Your self-worth, your attitude towards other people … a father figure was murdered in front of you, that leaves scars. And I don’t think you can move on from that before we talk about it.”

He doesn’t answer for what seems like hours. He’s trying to figure out where to start. Shun allows him to get his thoughts in order. 

Shun draws in a breath when Ishida says, “When my grandmother would need to practice, she was a concert pianist when she wasn’t doing Quincy work, my grandfather would take me on a walk in the park. Grandmother didn’t like anyone listening to her unless it was perfect. We’d take the same route every night, past the Imperial Palace, around the lake and the Three Palace Sanctuaries. Sometimes he would let me hold his gun and reload it, put a silencer on it and practice with it. On the night he was killed, my grandmother warned us about going out. She wasn’t going to practice, said she couldn’t when the witness protection squad were standing guard. She said going out was courting death. But I really wanted to go so … I remember it smelt like rain. We made it around the lake and then suddenly he pushes me into the trees, tells me to stay down and quiet. I hear someone talking, my grandfather answers, something like, “My pride as a Quincy will see me through,” or something like that,” he chuckles lifelessly, “His last words and I can’t …”

Ishida licks his lips. The tea’s gone cold. 

“I look around the tree and see them raising their guns. They shot him 64 times. They emptied their clips into him. He fell to the ground at the third shot,” his voice wavers and he swallows hard, ignoring the way he’s about to cry, “I came out after they’d left. I got blood on my shoes. I knew he was dead but I still checked his pulse. I didn’t even notice I got blood on my knees. I ran to find a phone booth, and called the police. It took them fifteen minutes to arrive. My father came from Shizuoka to pick me up … my grandmother couldn’t leave the apartment because she was so heartbroken,” his voice dies out and he puts his cup on the coffee table. He falls back into the couch, “They didn’t catch them. I didn’t tell them I saw them. I found out who they were when I was fifteen and when I was 18 I hunted them down and killed them.”

Shun frowns, but doesn’t speak at first, takes a sip of his tea and puts down his cup, leans forward and looks at him, “I’m proud of you.”

“I killed five people.”

“You survived.”

“Because I was pushed into the shrubbery.”

“Because you’re stronger than you think,” Shun counters and straightens. “You can’t change what happened back then, but despite what you keep thinking, you’re a good person, Ishida. You’ve done bad things, but you’re trying to redeem yourself. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here now, you wouldn’t have accepted the NPA’s offer and you wouldn’t be trying to fix things with Kurosaki.” 

Ishida rubs his eyes and huffs.

Shun gets to his feet and takes Ishida’s cup, “You deserve to be happy, Ishida, you need to let yourself remember that.” 

 

Ishida’s favorite drink is a margarita. He’s had approximately seven of them and he’s having a terrific time. Abarai had all but dragged him and Kuchiki to the department’s summer party and when faced with the choice between drinking alone or drinking with people, Ishida doesn’t really have a preference. Usually, alcohol and loneliness doesn’t mix well, though, but Abarai keeps him occupied all night.

The air between him and Kuchiki’s been frosty since she caught on to his disappearance act so she’s currently talking to other colleagues. Ishida wonders if she knows she’s due a promotion. She probably doesn’t because she’s busy breathing down his neck making him talk to Kurosaki as if it wasn’t her who told him to stay away in the first place.

Currently though, he can’t bring himself to care. He enjoys the temperate summer air and draws in deep breaths of June into his lungs. He feels at ease, still angry, but at ease. It’s a smoldering sort of fire he hasn’t had in a long time and it fills him with the same sort of confidence he remembers having before he executed five people in a dingy alley. He feels alive. He deserves to be happy, he thinks and he feels like soon, he might just believe it too.

It’s all well and good until he spots a familiar mop of hair and feels himself sober immediately. Abarai, Ishida realizes, has him cornered. The way he’s all but rooted himself between Ishida and the out has Ishida sharpen and weighing his options. There seems to be a conspiracy at work. He forgot how well-connected Kurosaki is. 

Kurosaki comes over and exchanges a few words with Abarai who then glances at Ishida, making an apologetic face at him and takes his leave. Fucking traitor.

He doesn’t understand why he’s here. He’d figured that a clean break would help him get over this faster. Ishida’s as much in love with him as he’s always been, but he refuses to be a rebound for someone else. If he’s to be anybody’s rebound, it’s going to be because his ass is wicked and he’s very flexible.

Ishida simply refuses to play along with this. He clenches his jaw and wonders if the only person in the world who’s on his side is Hikaru, who might as well just like him for his money. His tattoo is still tender and wrapped away, he hasn’t seen it yet, though he’s dying to. He’d spent hours in front of the mirror staring down the dragon she’d made him, it had made him feel strong, having such power emblazoned on his back.

Kurosaki sits down across from him and rests his arms on the table, looking serious and uncomprehending.

The music’s faded out, the stars are invisible in the light pollution and suddenly June is suffocating and deceitful. He tries breathing deep, but it doesn’t help because he was just fucking sold out! Maybe he should just throw 30 pieces of silver at Abarai and then escort himself to Hell and find a nice, frosty circle to settle down in.

“I’m not Kumiko,” he says.

“Is this what this –“

“You don’t get to redeem her through me, I’m not her and if you’d listened to a single thing I’d said the past fucking year, you’d know that!” He looks right and tries to steady his breathing, but nothing’s happening, his lungs are still too tight and his throat is even tighter.

Kurosaki makes a choked laugh, “I know you’re not –“

“Do you? You sure?” Ishida turns to face him now and that was a shitty decision, because Kurosaki’s sober and bright, making it up for the starless night above them simply by being here. Most importantly, he looks hurt. It makes Ishida feel powerful.

“I know I was a dick, alright, I know that I manipulated you and you didn’t deserve that, but I don’t deserve having six people breathing down my neck so I talk to you. If it was for both our sakes, I wouldn’t mind, but when this is you closing a book I’m not even in … You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make me feel like shit and have all your friends corroborate your story. You don’t own me, I’m not some thing you can use and then …”

“Ishida,” Kurosaki says and he sounds pained. Well, join the fucking club, asshole!

“Just fuck off, okay?” Ishida says, pressing his knuckles into his eyes. 

He doesn’t hear Kurosaki get up, nor does his presence lessen. They sit there without speaking, Ishida breathing and Kurosaki watching. 

“Come on,” Kurosaki asks and gets up. He helps Ishida stand and leads him outside, walking him somewhere. Ishida sure fucking hope it’s home. 

The world is crooked and wobbly and all Ishida has to steady himself with is Kurosaki who seems entirely unfazed with his drunkenness. 

They stumble up a staircase and Ishida feels a familiar bed under him, sheets he knows and a pillowcase he recognizes. His dreams are restless and his sleep is broken periodically, but when the sun starts to rise, he finally calms and settles into the bed and falls asleep.

 

He wakes with a tremendous headache and a dry throat. He sits up. At least his not drunk still. The world has stopped swaying.

He looks around and stops dead in his tracks because this isn’t his apartment. He feels the sheet and swallows at how cool they are. He stands and finds he’s been stripped down to his underwear. His sternum is still bandaged, still cradling his newest confession.

Ishida stands and opens the door into the living room. The cat jumps down from the windowsill and saunters towards him. She eyes him; he can picture her smirking, and crouches down to pet her. Her fur’s as soft as he remembers. She purrs at him and grinds herself against every available surface of him. He smiles and continues petting her.

Kurosaki’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s at work. It’s Saturday, but that’s never stopped him before.

Then he hears deep breaths from the couch and Ishida gets up slowly and walks around the couch, finding Kurosaki there, sleeping. He’s too tall to sleep on it comfortably, his feet are hanging out and the blankets have fallen to the ground. 

Now, Ishida’s not a masochist, but he’s somewhat of a nostalgic as well as an incurable daydreamer. He pads towards Kurosaki’s head and sits down, watching him. The cat slinks over, deposits herself in his lap and demands attention. Ishida, never one to disappoint the ladies, cards his fingers over her.

“Hey,” Kurosaki rasps and Ishida looks up. “Sleep alright?”

He nods and scratches the cats ear.

“She missed you,” Kurosaki says and sits up. It would appear as if he’s also slept in his underwear. If Ishida wasn’t sporting a headache, he would’ve leered and made lewd suggestions. He hasn’t had sex for almost six months and it’s starting to wear at him. He had this idea that he’d remain chaste for Kurosaki’s sake but that’s only gotten him an unwanted infatuation and a terrible temper.

Kurosaki gets up and walks to the kitchen, finding two mugs and firing up his (it wouldn’t surprise Ishida if the thing was still broken) coffee-machine.

“Did you get hurt?” he asks then and looks over from Etsuko (God, what a dork).

Ishida shakes his head and moves to the couch, taking the cat with him. She doesn’t seem to mind the slightest. “I got a tattoo.”

“Another one?” Kurosaki asks. He has this ability to misplace every inflection so as to make it neigh impossible to figure out the subtext. Or maybe it’s the headache. Ishida’s not sure, but he can’t read any disappointment, any anger, any curiosity in his voice.

Ishida shrugs, “I shot Llargo.”

“It really bothers you that much?” Kurosaki’s moved on to toasting bread. 

“I killed someone, of course it bothers me,” he might’ve sounded petulant, but he isn’t exactly in a position where he gives a shit. He’s sitting half-naked on a couch petting a cat, his life is not exactly a good example of sound decision-making. 

“I can’t figure you out,” Kurosaki admits then. His back is turned but Ishida looks at him anyway. He’s not sure if he should congratulate himself. “Rukia keeps telling me you ask about things I’ve said and Renji said you seemed happier after we began having coffee on Tuesdays. Then suddenly you stop coming and cancel everything I try to arrange, you avoid me and go get a new tattoo and I’m sitting at my desk wondering what the fuck went wrong. Then, when I finally get to talk to you, you talk about Kumi and ...”

He stops when the toaster pings and stands over the sink, breathing heavily, “What do you want from me?”

Ishida’s eyes begin wandering towards the window and he casts them down immediately. He doesn’t like this. Kurosaki says these things like it’s smalltalk while waiting for the train.

“I don’t know,” Ishida answers, “Nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because you seemed angry for someone who didn’t want anything.”

“I want you, okay, asshole?” Ishida bites and gets up. “And not what we had before, I want you to actually give a shit about me and not the things that I’ve done, because I’m trying to move past that, I’m trying to become someone better, but you keep dragging me back to the person I was because you keep acting like that’s who you’re expecting to see. But that’s not me.

“I hate mornings, I play video-games, I hate Rachmaninoff, I listen to Rammstein when I’m angry and throw things when I’m sad! I hate politics, I drive without a license, I stole the bike I have now and I have killed six people. For each milestone in my life I have a tattoo to remind me of where I’ve been and I love looking out windows to the point it’s worrying me a little. Books are great, but I read them because it makes it harder for people to talk to me. I have sex with strangers to feel validated, but I haven’t slept with anyone since I went to France, because I don’t want some random douchebags approval, I want yours. I’m not a good person, but I’m trying to be. I’m working on it.” 

He stands in front on Kurosaki in nothing but his underwear, panting because he worked himself up despite his headache, which is even worse now because his blood is pumping through his veins. He deflates and sits down on the armrest of the couch. “So there.”

Kurosaki doesn’t say anything. He just butters the toast and pours the coffee. He hands Ishida a slice and a mug and leans against the kitchen cabinets. “I knew you hated mornings.”

“Are you serious?” Ishida mutters and eats his toast with a single-mindedness he usually only puts into hunting Yakuza. Or put, he doesn’t do incredibly much hunting these days.

“You snore too,” Kurosaki adds.

“I do not.”

Kurosaki takes a bite of his toast, “We suck at communicating.”

Ishida huffs, “You suck at remembering.”

Kurosaki looks up and watches him with a frown. He’s going to have wrinkles before he’s 30.

“Why do you always do this?” Kurosaki asks and the frown deepens. He hasn’t raised his voice, only takes another bite of his toast and looks displeased.

“Because I’m not a good person, I just told you.”

“You are, though. I think you are.”

Ishida takes a sip of the luke-warm coffee and blinks away whatever emotion might’ve shown on his face. 

“When did it become so difficult for us to talk? Before all this we talked all the time.” 

The cat jumps onto the cabinets and up onto Kurosaki’s shoulders. She starts rubbing their faces together and he absentmindedly becomes envious of a cat. He’ll maintain that was the headache speaking. 

“I guess you started judging me and I stopped trusting you,” Ishida replies and takes another drink of his coffee before it grows completely cold. 

“Or the other way around.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugs and falls back onto the couch, stretching and eating the last bite of his toast. He hears the cat landing on the floor with a thump and then suddenly Kurosaki’s looming over him. He’s gorgeous in the morning light and Ishida feels his heart stutter when the other kneels down next to him and looks him in the eyes.

“I remember, y’know,” he says and takes a sip of his coffee.

Ishida watches him carefully, “I meant it.”

Ishida expects a smile, but he gets a frown, “So did I.”

 

Kuchiki knows something’s up the minute he sets foot in the office, at least is her smirk is anything to go by. He throws his satchel onto the couch and dumps down into his chair, “Just say it.”

“I’m above such things,” she replies and taps a few words into her computer. “But was it really so bad.”

“You were the one who wanted me to leave him alone.”

She frowns, “That’s what you got from that talk?”

Contrary to popular belief, Ishida’s not in fact a mind reader. Ryuuken seems to think he is, just looking at him and then sighing, shaking his head as if he expected Ishida to know what’s going through his head. It’s tiring playing that game, especially when most of it ends in with a disappointed breath.

“Wasn’t that the point?” he asks instead.

“Oh my God, for a genius you’re really dumb sometimes.” As much as he bristles at this, he also accepts the truth of it. He leans back and folds his arms over his chest, “Well, excuse me.”

Kuchiki shakes her head and leans forward rests her arms on the table, “What I tried telling you was that Ichigo was making sure you weren’t like Kumi.”

Ishida clicks his tongue, because he honestly hoped that would be fucking obvious. 

“Don’t we have a case or something?” he tries distracting her and picking up a case-file. She smacks her hand down on it, effectively stopping him from doing anything remotely work-related. This seems to be an oxymoron if there ever was one.

“Taiwanese drug smugglers can wait.” And okay, priorities, “Did you make up?”

Ishida recognizes a lost battle when he sees one. That’s one of the reasons he’s still alive now. So he takes a breath and unfolds his arms, leaving them in his lap. “I’m not sure,” he admits. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ishida’s not too sure himself. When Kurosaki had knelt down next to him, he could’ve sworn he was about to kiss him. The air had crackled and sparked and his heart had been beating faster, so loud he knew Kurosaki would’ve seen his pulse point thrumming from where he was sitting. But he hadn’t. He’d only looked searchingly in his eyes and then gotten up again, leaving Ishida bereft and breathless.

“He’s been in surgery,” he says as a way of explanation. His knee-surgery had finally happened and Ishida had tried calling him, but had never gotten further than to hover over the call-button. He’d finally given in an bought a phone. Kuchiki didn’t even have his number yet. Sentimentality wanted Kurosaki to be the first to know the sequence of square roots and prime numbers that made up the direct line to him. 

“He’s home now, going stir-crazy,” Kuchiki says kicking her phone with her finger.

Ishida stares at it, “You think I should visit him?”

“No, let him pine and sulk in peace. He’s only called me four times today asking if anything’s happened.” She waves a hand to encompass how very little’s happening. Despite them closing in on the Taiwanese drug-trade and trafficking ring, a new kumicho named Tier Hallibel, and Abarai slowly mobilizing the Riot Squad.

“Besides, today’s Thursday,” she adds, “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

 

Ishida’s standing outside Kurosaki’s apartment building wondering if he should ring the bell or just head on up. The building’s front door’s open to everyone from 6am to 8pm. Ishida sometimes worries that he’s unwelcome, taking the open door for granted. 

He bought a coffee, sipping it absentmindedly. It was originally intended for Kurosaki, but then he became cold inside and decided he needed it more. He’s also bought a get well card. He hasn’t written anything in it because it feels wrong to do so when he doesn’t even know what’s going on between them.

He walked here. Thought it would clear his head. 

It hasn’t. 

He opens the door and goes inside, up the stairs and outside the door, he pauses again. He lifts his hand and knocks. 

“Come in,” Kurosaki shouts. Ishida opens the door and enters. 

Kurosaki’s sitting on the couch, back towards the door, leg up and bound in what appears to be thirty layers of foam, steel rods and bandages. The cat’s in his lap and he’s absentmindedly petting her. All the windows have been thrown open and the curtains and wafting gently in the breeze. The room has this atmosphere of an airy, open floor. Ishida sets his satchel on the ground and toes off his shoes.

“Who’s there?”

Ishida walks into his field of vision, “You just let everybody in?”

A slow smile spreads on Kurosaki’s face and he looks around, “I’d offer you a place to sit, but I don’t think I have any chairs.”

“Any chairs unoccupied by room-service, you mean.” Ishida takes a seat on the floor, facing Kurosaki. “How’re you holding up?”

“It’s not too bad,” Kurosaki shrugs, “I’m bored out of my mind, but otherwise, not too bad.”

Ishida plucks a thread from his pants and flicks it away. Kurosaki watches his face and licks his lips, “And you?”

“Kuchiki’s a menace,” he answers half-heartedly. She’s been better than he expected she would be. He assumed, like Kumi it would seem, that she and Kurosaki had hooked up at least once and that was the reason for her rather cool attitude. Turns out she’s a great deal better at reading people than Kurosaki is. At least judging their true intentions, if on a subconscious level. 

“Yeah, I remember when I interned under her. She was terrifying. Great, but terrifying.”

“I bought you a card,” he says, nonsensically really, but he wants to say something that makes Kurosaki smile. The other looks intrigued and a shadow of one passes his mouth. Ishida will take that.

“You bought me a card?” Kurosaki repeats as Ishida finds the card from his satchel. He has to leave the floor for that, but all good things must come to an end. And start again, because while Kurosaki takes it and opens it he sits back down.

“It’s empty,” Kurosaki remarks and there’s a reason he’s a decorated lieutenant, isn’t there. Ishida says this and he rolls his eyes in response.

Ishida adds, “I didn’t know what you wanted to read.”

Kurosaki gives him a look and Ishida gets up again, sighing, and finds a pen, again from his satchel. He sits down, makes sure Kurosaki knows how ridiculous he thinks this is (secretly he’s giddy like a 13 year old schoolgirl) and clicks the pen.

“Dearest Ichigo,” Kurosaki begins.

“Kurosaki,” Ishida corrects and writes.

“You are the smartest and most charming individual I’ve ever met.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met your equal for witty banter and offensive conversation.”

Ishida just writes that. Kurosaki whips his head down to him, “You’re writing that?”

“I’m aiming for truthful.”

Kurosaki gives him a look, “I know I’m a handful.”

“I’m a fucking delight, I know.”

“But I hope we’ll see more of each other in the future.”

Again Ishida just writes and signs. He then hands the card to Kurosaki and click the pen again. Kurosaki takes it and reads it, a wide smile on his lips. He puts it on the table behind him where The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and everything that entails sits. 

They quiet for a while, then Ishida looks up and meets his eyes, “I talked to Shun.”

Kurosaki nods, “I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?”

“I should’ve known you …” he gestures with his hands and Ishida can’t help but take pity on him. He has no idea what to call it himself without getting offended. The funny thing is, even though he knows Kurosaki means no harm, he would be hurt by anything he chose to call it. 

So he saves Kurosaki by saying, “I didn’t know. It wasn’t until Sado-kun suggested I talked to him. I didn’t even want to at first.”

“Shun has a way with dark secrets, like he’s a snake charmer, just with all the things you don’t want to talk about,” Kurosaki agrees and gives a half-smile. 

Ishida looks away, because it feels intimate. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Mizuiro made me some spring rolls,” Kurosaki nods and looks at the empty plate. Ishida gets up and takes the plate to the sink and turns on the faucet, if anything then to get some distance between them. He does the dishes while Kurosaki protests. But it’s not like he can stop him, so hey.

He returns after fifteen minutes, sits back down after he’s pilfered the cat from Kurosaki’s chest. She doesn’t seem to mind being catnapped, she just settles and purrs.

“You stole my cat,” Kurosaki says, somewhat affronted, Ishida looks up and sees a quiet smile there. He feels himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t noticed he wasn’t. 

He looks back down at the cat and smiles at her, “Not my fault she likes me better.”

“She does not,” Kurosaki argues, but only reaches down to pet her ear and at least the cat seems to be perfectly content with this situation. 

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Their hands brush together and Ishida pretends he doesn’t want to carefully place the cat on the ground and then throw off his clothes and ravish Kurosaki right then and there. He should start masturbating more; this is getting out of hand.

“Do you ever think that we could do it?”

“Do what?” he asks, looking up, because the tone of voice begs him to.

“Get back together,” Kurosaki says quietly.

“I just fantasized about ripping my clothes off and fucking you right then and there because you touched my hand,” Ishida admits and sees a blush creep onto Kurosaki’s face.

He swallows and says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m not retracting my statement.”

Kurosaki chuckles and looks at him fondly. They sit in companionable silence, petting the cat. Their hands bump into each other a few more times and each time Ishida looks up to find Kurosaki smiling like a dimwit.

“If you think I’m below fingering myself here and now, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Kurosaki coughs, like he breathed wrong and the flush is back. Ishida finds the color charming. He bumps Kurosaki’s hand again and makes him look at him. He doesn’t say anything, because he’s not that type of person. He can do the filthiest dirty talk you ever heard, but he’s never been able to say anything that expresses emotion or fondness without making it sound sarcastic. Therefor he hopes Kurosaki gets his message despite it being silent.

The smile that spreads across his mouth, the lingering blush from his previous mortification, has Ishida thinking he understands. That maybe Kurosaki doesn’t mind him being taciturn like this.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking shit about Ishida’s colleagues, many of whom Kurosaki knows and despises as well. Ishida elicits several laughs from Kurosaki, trash-talking always a core competence, though never one he could put on his resume. 

Oddly, sitting on the floor of Kurosaki’s living room, talking smack about Organized Crime is one of the best things to happen in a long while. He feels relaxed. He feels content. For the first time in a long time, he feels like himself.

 

“So how’re you doing?” Shun asks as he sets down a cup in front of him, “Anything ailing you?”

“Kurosaki’s ailing me.”

Shun chuckles, “I was wondering when we’d get to this.”

 

Ishida stops by Kurosaki when he can, their caseload is picking up and suddenly he finds himself without any limitations of the hours he’ll pull. Kurosaki whines whenever he comes over, complaining about how bored he is. Apparently, it’s not just Organized Crime working overtime, Homicide is pulling their load as well. 

The bandage has come off and he’s taken to staring at himself in the mirror again, admiring the sharp edges and symmetry. It feels like him and it feels like an armor.

Thursday (which he’d only just gotten used to spending on his own, oftentimes visiting Shun and talking to him, other times going shopping, other times again, just walking) he stops by and Kurosaki persuades him to stay the night. 

“I can take the couch,” he says with misplaced chivalry, “You know, so you don’t perish from sexual frustration.”

And ha, ha. Jokes on him. Shopping involves sex toys. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Ishida sighs and finds an old t-shirt of Kurosaki’s to sleep in. They settle down, Kurosaki’s still pretty much immobilized, forced to sleep on his back. 

Ishida stretches out his arm and places it askew on Kurosaki’s chest. He can feel his heart race under his palm, but he simply pushes a little and says, “Arm’s length or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“I’ve been celibate for 6 months and 17 days, how long have you gone without sex?”

Kurosaki considers this and frowns. The cat settles in between them and lays down. Ishida can feel his eyes blinking shut, he’s completely bombed. Kuchiki’s a slave driver, and he’d only gotten off at 10pm after meeting in at 6:30am. Oooh, Hell is a place on Earth.

“I haven’t had sex since we did it last.”

Kurosaki turns his head and watches him. He reaches out and stroked a hand down Ishida’s cheek. It feels so nice, he hums.

“Well, I’ll have you know French sex is like chicken nuggets.” And that’s the exhaustion talking.

Kurosaki snaps back in laughter, “How is French sex like chicken nuggets?”

“Chicken nuggets are shitty chicken in shitty batter, tasting like cardboard. French sex is shitty sex in shitty beds, tasting like misery.”

“You don’t like chicken nuggets?”

“I fucking hate chicken nuggets.”

“Anything you don’t hate?”

“I don’t hate you.”

 

“Good morning, Ishida, pleasure seeing you here,” Kuchiki says. Ishida turns and burrows deeper into the sheets. He should’ve known. The Universe likes throwing him curveballs. And nothing says curveball like your supervising agent finding you partially naked in said supervising agent’s best friend’s bed. 

“Leave him alone, he doesn’t like mornings.”

“I fucking hate mornings,” Ishida corroborates and sits up. He’s awake now, there’s no going back from here. He rubs his eyes and opens them, to find Kuchiki standing in the door, eyebrows lifted.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks.

“I might ask you the same thing,” she says, completely unrepentant, smirking like she’s having a field day, which she probably is.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Kuchiki smacks her lips, “Ichigo?”

And okay, he walked straight into that, “If only.”

“I’m not sure I’m better for knowing this.”

Ishida cracks his back and shrugs, “Your loss.”

“What’re you talking about?” Kurosaki shouts from the living room. Kuchiki looks at Ishida, who gets up and walks over to the chair where he put his clothes yesterday, “Tell him the truth, it’s hilarious.”

Kuchiki gives him a look that says she knows. 

They eat breakfast together, speaking loosely about their cases, when Kurosaki will be out of his medically imposed prison and when he’ll be back to work. Ishida finds out Kuchiki stops by every morning and chats with Kurosaki and he can’t find it in himself to be surprised or bothered by it. He’s seen trees with better sexual chemistry than those two. They strike him like a pair of siblings mostly, perhaps an old married couple in the way they know each other so thoroughly. And they’re amusing.

He finds himself wondering if all the people Kurosaki calls his friends could one day be his. And if he could find one like Kuchiki.

He likes the thought of that. He likes it a lot.

 

It’s when the end of July comes around, Kurosaki’s on his feet again. He’s not allowed to go out in the field or walk around without his crutches. Kuchiki drives him to work and he takes the elevator. Most of the day he’s sitting in his chair, spinning around or reading case files. Ishida knows this because he might’ve walked past a few times to check on him. 

He runs into Kojima who gives him a raised eyebrow.

“I’m besotted, fuck off,” Ishida deadpans and Kojima gives him a smile.

“No worries, we’re about used to pining now.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for that,” Ishida says and looks towards Kurosaki again. The other looks up and sees him. He smiles, it’s controlled and quiet, but it’s as radiant as a thousand suns. Ishida might go blind if this continues.

Kojima rolls his eyes, “You should eat lunch with us. You and Kuchiki both.”

“I’ll relay the offer.”

“You’ll accept the offer and save us all,” he corrects and heads out in the bullpen. Ishida cocks his head to the side and walks to the stairs. If it goes to Hell, he can always just run away, Kurosaki can’t catch up to him. He thinks this, but for once he believes it to be utter bullshit.

 

Ishida’s watching the news while he’s eating a bowl of cereal. He’s standing behind the couch, finishing his dinner and frowning at the rise in petty crimes. How can there be a rise in petty crimes? They literally just took down a Taiwanese crime syndicate trying to butt into Japanese affairs. 

There’s a knock at the door. He backs towards the door, trying to catch the last part of the feature. He’s taken to locking his door after Kuchiki began inviting herself inside in the morning. This was annoying seeing as he sleeps in the nude, she never brought coffee and it was mostly to wake him looming over his bed because he was late.

He unlocks and opens. Kurosaki’s standing outside with a cup of Starbucks coffee and a rose.

“Get inside before you embarrass yourself,” Ishida says, shutting the door after him. He points Kurosaki to the couch. The other’s taking his sweet time getting there, ogling his apartment. Ishida finishes his cereal and puts it in the sink.

“What do you want?” he asks and leans against the counters.

Kurosaki’s looking out the window, twirling the rose between his fingers. Ishida notes it isn’t yellow which is a great relief. He’s trying to calm his heart, it’s almost thrumming, beating so hard it might just break his ribs. He takes a deep breath, “Kurosaki?”

“I wanted to ask you out,” he says, lifting the rose as if was an invitation. “This is too much, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Ishida asks, because he’s an asshole and he loves tormenting other people. 

Kurosaki walks to the dining table and puts down the rose and the coffee, “Do you wanna go on a date with me?”

Ishida walks carefully to the table and stands in front of Kurosaki, “If I said no?”

“I don’t have a back-up plan if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies and looks to his feet, a nervous smile on his face. He’s so sure Ishida’s going to say yes. Ishida can tell. But he’s nervous none the less, because who’s to say Ishida won’t just be using him for sex. It makes Ishida smile that he’s being thought of as an incurable incubus. 

He chuckles.

“So?”

“So.”

Ishida puts his hand on Kurosaki’s chest and nods, suddenly solemn. Because this is the fucking mountain top, his Everest. And that’s when he knows Kurosaki’s going to kiss him. 

Kurosaki leans forward then and when their lips touch, Ishida’s poor heart shudders and sighs. 

It’s tentative as most things are, like secrets or sunrises. Ishida lifts his hand and places it on Kurosaki’s neck and licks his lips, licking Kurosaki’s by accident. He tastes like summer, but he’s warm and he’s gentle. They kiss, break apart, panting lightly.

Then, moving as one, they kiss again. Ishida moves towards Kurosaki and Kurosaki places a hand on his side, keeping him there. His hand is warm on his chilled skin and Ishida feels goosebumps spreading across his body. He buries his own hand in Kurosaki’s hair and runs it through, feeling like he’s running his fingers through sunrays. His eyes are burning and his head is hurting, but he doesn’t open his eyes until Kurosaki breaks away again, this time to look Ishida in the eye and seeing his pupils blown and black.

Ishida might have a boner. Emotional as well as physical.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

He’s not sure what he expected, but sitting down to lunch the following Monday with all of Kurosaki’s friends all staring at him was not it. They’re rarely quiet, they’re noisy and imposing. Ishida has found out that Kurosaki’s group of friend enjoy a certain status within the NPA. The group consists of the best they have, really. Kurosaki’s yet to have an unsolved case which in itself is impressive, but when it turns out that he’s worked some of the most high-profile cases the country’s ever seen, that he’s the one they call whenever they have one, Ishida felt his throat go dry. 

Sado’s one of Kurosaki’s most trusted people, they can work their way out of Hell and high water should it ever be necessary. They have, according to office-legend, taken down 20 Yakuza by themselves. Sado went to prison for supporting Kurosaki, Kurosaki almost got suspended for doing the same. Inoue’s the coroner everyone prays to have on their case, she’s thorough, has almost a supernatural ability to figure out names, deaths and lives of those who end upon her table. Kojima has been attempted headhunted many times, Asano’s made a cross-road deal with the Devil. What keeps them where they are, at the NPA; what keeps them from seeking private corporations is their loyalty to Kurosaki.

Ishida’s yet to speak to an employee who didn’t know who any of them were, even more so, who didn’t admire them and spoke well of them. Which is why they’re oftentimes forgiven their rather boisterous behavior at lunch. Apparently, stardom is a thing.

But now, they’re all staring at him as he sits down. Kurosaki’s sitting at the other end of the table, staring into the table and ears tinted a shy red. 

Ishida ignores them and opens the lid of his salad and fishes the dressing up from it, throwing it across the room and landing it directly in the bin. If policing fails, basketball might be an option. He’s been eating better these past months, healthier, more. Before he wouldn’t eat anything but a bowl of cereal the entire day.

“So, Ishida …” Kojima says and leans forward, hands folded, looking every bit a cartoon villain. Ishida forks a piece of lettuce and tries stabbing a crouton as well, failing miserably. “What do you want?”

“We’ve heard through the grapevine that you and Ichigo might’ve made romantic plans this Saturday.”

Ishida’s stomach flips, if only because he’s reminded of the fact that he has an actual, honest to God, date with Kurosaki Ichigo. They’re going out to eat, Kurosaki stupidly insisting on paying despite Ishida being pretty much financially independent enough for the both of them. As far as Ishida’s understood, the date will pretty much only be dinner, mostly because neither of them have any desire to go watch a movie when they could be having sex instead. God, he’s getting turned on just thinking about it.

He flips his hair, because it’s windswept like an autumn storm. He’d stepped out for a smoke and has returned to the Ministry of Love it seems.

“Followed by depraved acts of lecherous lovemaking hopefully.” Ishida takes a drink of water as Asano spits out his. Kurosaki’s wearing an even deeper shade of red and as always, Ishida finds it delectable.

“Mizuiro, who’s this incubus you’ve invited to our table?!”

Again, Ishida can’t say that he’s anything but flattered to be called a corrupter of the sexes.

Arisawa sits down next to Inoue and looks between them. Ishida can’t say he knows her very well. She’s part of the Riot Squad, he rarely has anything to do with them. She gives him a measured nod and a smile for Inoue. 

“So,” she starts as she unwraps the foil around her lunch. It’s huge. Ishida’s a picky eater at best, he can survive on smoke and instant noodles if the need should arise. It hasn’t, but he’s proven it many times that it’s possible. She separates her chopsticks and digs in, “I sense the Quincygate has come to a conclusion,” she comments with her mouth full.

“Saturday, August 1st,” Kojima smiles devilishly.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I most definitely am not,” he positively leers and Ishida feels like he’s missing out. Arisawa sighs and digs into her pocket and finds her wallet. She finds two 10.000 Yen notes and hands them to Kojima who nods and thanks her for her patronage.

“Did you gamble on this?” Kurosaki exclaims and leans forward, looking far too surprised for someone who’s known these people a great deal longer than Ishida. He’s not exactly surprised at he is morally exhausted.

“As a matter of fact, Carrottop, we did,” Asano says and wiggles his eyes at Kuchiki who rolls her eyes and finds two notes, exactly like Arisawa. To Ishida’s surprise, so does Sado and Inoue.

“It’s what saw us through these trying times,” Kojima adds and accepts the winnings.

“You made bets on when we’d get together?” Ishida rewords Kurosaki’s question, because it’s an excellent one, to be sure. 

Asano’s counting the pot, everybody’s been in on this it seems, “I thought you’d lost that stick up your ass.”

“It’s the only thing I’ve had up my ass the past six months, it’s not going anywhere,” Ishida deadpans and Arisawa coughs.

“You get used to it,” Kojima assures her. Ishida frowns and plucks the rest of his salad from the plastic box. It’s only slightly better than the sandwiches they have, it’s like the salad they put in this have a depression. And Ishida would know. 

Kurosaki gets up and goes to sit next to Ishida. He doesn’t say anything, only offers him a smile and then continues to eat. Ishida watches him a second longer before Asano’s making kissing noises. Ishida’s tempted to prove him right, but only closes the lid of his lunch.

“What do we owe the pleasure?” Arisawa asks.

Kurosaki looks to Ishida like he’s the most exciting thing he’s laid his eyes upon, like they have a common secret. Ishida can’t help the smirk that pulls at his left cheek. 

Then Asano restarts the kissing noises and Ishida regrets not having retaken his weapons qualifications yet. He’ll have Kuchiki order one. At the very least he’ll have a deadly arsenal and the right to use them in the line of duty. Maybe he could specialize as a sniper. But then he’d have to kill people. He frowns. Is there a thing as a non-lethal sniper?

“He’s thinking about filthy sexual acts now, isn’t he?” Asano says. Sometimes Ishida has a hard time believing this is the cream of the crop of the NPA. 

From the corner of his eye, Kurosaki shaking his head, “That’s his window-face, for troubling thoughts or windows only.” 

It makes a part of him wonder how transparent he is. Maybe he should ask Shun about this. 

Inoue, who’s sitting across from him, leans forward, and smiles, “Shun asked me to say hi and good luck.”

Ishida can’t help looking positively stricken. Kurosaki chuckles and takes his hand under the table, away from the prying eyes of his friends. Ishida allows the banter to continue, allows it to completely flame him, if only because it has Kurosaki look to him, waiting for him to smile and squeezing his hand when he does. 

Lunch goes by entirely too quickly.

 

Saturday proves to be Everest and it’s fucking mother. He wakes up feeling groggy because he could hardly sleep last night. He doesn’t understand why his stomach insists on being filled with butterflies. For crying out loud, Kurosaki’s rimmed him and looked him straight in the eyes afterwards. Why on Earth is the notion of eating dinner with him in a fancy setting enough to make his insides feel shaky and unsure?

He spends most of day staring out the window. Around 3pm he goes for a walk, because his nerves are jittering and there’s only so much he can take of this. Instead, he walks through Chiyoda, walks past the Imperial Palace and the Three Palace Sanctuaries. He finds he can breathe easier than he could a year ago. 

On a whim, he finds his phone and calls Shun.

“Hello, Inoue Orihime speaking.”

“Hi, Inoue-san, is Shun there?” he asks. One thing he loves about the two of them is the fact that they only have cellphones for work. It’s the sense of unity, that you call the both of them when you dial the number, that has Ishida smile when it’s Inoue who picks up their phone.

“Let me get him, just a second,” he hears the phone be put down and Inoue move away. She calls him, receives a muffled reply. 

Shun picks up the phone and says, “Ishida, what’s up?”

“I’m in Chiyoda,” he answers. Shun hums and he can almost picture him sitting down, sun streaming through the windows of their apartment, despite the fact that it’s practically nighttime outside because of the leaden clouds.

“How’s Chiyoda?”

“Chiyoda’s fine,” he replies and means it. For about 19 years, he’s hated Chiyoda, made ridiculous detours to avoid going through it. Lately, it doesn’t seem as imposing as it’s done for roughly two thirds of his life. He once tried stepping into the park and got as far as forty meters before he began panicking. This is the first time he’s been back since.

“I’m glad,” Shun says, “You’re doing great.”

“I’d like to think so,” Ishida says and looks over the lake. On the other side his grandfather was pierced by 64 bullets and died in front of his eyes. The memory has his throat tighten and his lungs hurt, but he can breathe still, which is a victory.

“You should get back, Kurosaki’s picking you up at 5:30, no?”

Ishida frowns, “How extensive is this grapevine?” 

 

Ishida returns to his apartment at 4:30, which means that he has an hour left to panic and go through his closet. He showers, frowns at the mirror and looks at his tattoo. It’s stunning, is what it is. It stretches and moves like a living thing, springing from the bullet’s teeth marks. He admires it for five minutes before he runs his fingers through his hair and heads for his closet.

He spends longer than he cares to admit trying to select an outfit. 

He clicks his tongue and debates whether or not he should wear the garter belt he has somewhere in his drawers. Granted, it’s traditionally considered for woman, but he looks like sin on legs wearing them, so fuck the patriarchal gender norms. 

There’s a knock on the door and he’s literally only deciding upon his underwear. This is a new low.

“It’s open!” he shouts and frowns even deeper. Now the pressure is on. 

“Are you foregoing clothes all-together?” Kurosaki asks and leans on the doorframe. He, of course, looks splendid in a dark, blazer and dress-shirt, and pants that Ishida suspects were bought by Kuchiki.

“I’m trying to figure out whether or not to wear a garter belt.”

“Isn’t that designed for women’s stockings?”

“According to some, I’m sure.” 

Ishida decides to throw caution to the wind and put on the bloody garter. If anything because it’ll serve as the world’s flimsiest chastity belt. He digs it out from his drawers and walks into the closet, because knowing and seeing are two very different things, especially if Kurosaki thinks it’s females only.

“You didn’t want flowers or anything, did you?”

“Why would I want flowers?” he asks as he puts it on and gets a bit turned on as he sees himself in the mirror. He hurries to put on a pair of slacks, a fitted shirt, a waistcoat (it’s a date after all) and a jacket over the lot. 

“That’s what I said, but Rukia thought you might.”

Ishida walks out of the closet (and ha, ha, coming out jokes all around) and into the living room. Kurosaki’s been leaning on the dining table and Ishida suddenly has an image of Kurosaki taking him on that table. He smirks and saves it for later.

“Well, you never disappoint,” he remarks and Ishida takes it to mean his appearance.

“Just so we’re clear, after dinner we go back the closest apartment, have sex and live happily ever after, yeah?” Ishida asks and fixes Kurosaki’s blazer.

The other grins, “Yeah, that was the idea.”

“Let’s go then,” Ishida says and tugs at the lapels. 

The smile on Kurosaki’s face lights up the world like a burning star.

 

Wanna die in Beat City and run, run, run  
Wanna hang with girls and shoot my gun  
Wanna catch the rays off the sun  
Wanna drink and drive and have some fun

Wanna die in Beat City and go, go, go  
Can’t come with me cause you’re just too slow  
Inject the stars make them glow  
Put up a fight and put on a show


End file.
